Angel Blue
by chaoswalking
Summary: (Destiel AU): In the not-so-distant future, America is caught between the oppressive government, Heaven, and the violent rebels, Hell. Dean Winchester spends his days looking for the agents that killed his parents while hunting the supernatural with his brother. But during a failed mission, Dean comes across a blue-eyed stranger with a secret agenda–and decides to help him.
1. Chapter 1

Sam's car shouldn't have broken down. It shouldn't have been raining, the diner shouldn't have been open. There should have been no lights on in the houses that lined the street like dark candles, as the world collapsed and the water poured from the sky like it would never, ever stop.

But a lot of things had gotten fucked-up lately, and Dean Winchester wasn't really one to take bad luck in stride.

"Sammy, your piece of scrap metal fritzed on me. I want an explanation." he hissed as quietly as he could into the available telephone. The diner was almost completely empty, and he was soaked to the bone. There was no telling what awkward questions would surface if he attempted to explain himself to a patron.

"It's not that big a deal, okay? Just call Bobby, I'll be there in a day. Find a room. I dunno, drink yourself into a stupor, whatever." Sam's voice was weary and beaten through the telephone line. "Look, Dean, this isn't a good time. Can you call in the morning? I'm at Jess' house."

Dean could feel his heart sink. Outside, rain slanted slithering across the large store windows. It was even cold outside.

"Right. Jess. How is she?" He'd forgotten about his brother's fianceé, a little trouble with the law keeping him desperately out of the loop. It had been at least a year since they had gotten engaged, but then, it was hard to even do that around here. Life was dangerous, life was short, life was a serious kill joy according to the Winchester family curse.

"Not great, Dean. Her family's losing the farm. Too many fines."

Dean could practically hear the softening of Sammy's face as he sighed, the sound distorted by the crappy telephone line. It was a wonder this place even had a phone without a government bug–Dean was admittedly impressed.

"Okay. Yeah. See you later then, Sammy. Shout out to Jess for me."

His brother hung up with a desolate click.

And just like that, Dean was stuck.

...

_Dean was running. A hard run, a fast run. A "something big is coming" run that echoed in his bones as his feet slapped the mud/dirt road and sprayed the earth behind him with pebbles._

_The smell of smoke was thick and cloying, and oh God it burned, burned everything it touched. The house. The car. The photo album Mom kept locked away, hidden from the government that would take it and destroy it.  
_

_But Mom was gone, now. Eaten by the same flames that ate her last photographs.  
_

_Fire was clawing, licking, scratching at his heels. The faster Dean ran, the harder it became to move. The air was solidifying, churning into a thick jelly that filled his lungs and tore him off his feet, smoke still writhing in his gut.  
_

_He was drowning, suddenly. The air had turned to water, the road to a black lake. Water frothed and boiled around him, and the eerie glass-green of nothing at all was tearing at his nervous system even as his lungs clawed for air.  
_

_Around him, the charred remains of everything he had loved floated around him.  
_

_A lock of hair (gold).  
_

_A shred of a baseball glove.  
_

_A piece of paper once taped proud to a fridge. A+, for Sam Winchester, written in red, red ink.  
_

_A whole photograph of a beautiful, night-black car, definitely illegal (the government didn't like empowerment via good transportation. It worried them). Burning underwater.  
_

_"Dean,"  
_

_Someone was talking, grabbing his ankles. He looked down to see a pair of bleeding gray eye sockets, the eyes themselves orbs of throbbing white.  
_

_He recognized the corpse.  
_

_It was his own.  
_

...

"Sir, you have to wake up now."

Dean jerked awake, his head swimming. He thought he smelled smoke for an instant, and he wiped his brow with a shaking hand.

He must have fallen asleep waiting for his food, because he was still in the sticky red diner booth, and the sky outside was the same broiling cacophony of hail and rain and angry black clouds. The waitress had his bacon cheeseburger and fries balanced on her palm, a look of bland concern etched across her face. She might have been pretty once. No longer.

"Sorry. Thanks." Dean allowed himself to breathe in reality. He couldn't quite remember what he had been dreaming, but it smelled awful, and the sizzling bacon was making him drool.

He leaned over the food, and dug in with no fork. It wasn't like he was trying to appear polite, and he needed something to take his mind off things, take his mind off of everything. The surge in unusual deaths. The decaying of the Unified American Police Force and the rise of the new, corrupt government.

And Sam was engaged.

God, he'd never get over that. With a chuckle, he chewed a slice of bacon. It was minor grade, probably manufactured off of some slimy g-men sanctioned slaughterhouse, but at least he wasn't starving. Dean Winchester was never picky when it came to food.

He paid for his burger. He needed to find a room, then get the hell out of dodge before this sleepy town even noticed he was here.

He was technically a criminal, after all. Technically.

The government didn't particularly take to traveling vigilantes, especially ones who went after their men. And Dean was a damn good vigilante, he had to admit.

With a slide of green paper across Formica, he aimed a signature mega-watt smile at the waitress.

"Where can I find myself a cheap motel?"

...

Pulling up to the Good Fortunes Roadside Inn, Dean knew immediately that there was something wrong. He eased Sam's beaten car (temporarily repaired for a few extra dollars) into the farthest space, and flicked off the lights, sinking down a little in his seat.

There were three government official outside the motel. It was easy to see they were government, with their neat black suits and their eyes covered by slim shades. Even the female g-man wore a shapeless blazer and pants. For a second Dean worried that they were after him, that they had finally found him, but then he noticed who exactly they were crowded around.

The fourth suit was different. Instead of the traditional black, he wore what appeared to be a beige trench coat, a little too large. A tie was hanging upside-down from his neck, and his messy dark hair looked oddly rumpled, as if he had just rolled out of bed minutes ago.

If the change of outfit hadn't given the stranger away, the look of utter confusion certainly told Dean he wasn't a g-man. He let out a breath of relief, the anxiety lessening slightly. He'd been so afraid. He had promised Sammy only nights ago that he would return from this mission alive. Return to see his baby brother get married quietly, under the watchful eye of oppressive strangers.

But even as he trundled out of the car, the hood under his leather jacket yanked all the way up to protect his face (just in case), Dean couldn't help but slow a little as he passed the confrontation. The rain had stopped just enough to allow their words to travel easily to Dean's passing ears.

"You know we're only trying to help, Mr. Novak," the female suit said smoothly, adjusting her glasses. Her thin lips barely raised in a smile. "We're doing the best we can to find your friend, but I'm afraid these things take time."

"It has been two years," the trench-coat man said in a grave voice. "He's been gone for two years, and you have not even given me a single clue to where he is."

"I advise you to hold your tongue, Mr. Novak," the woman answered neatly. She had stepped forward just slightly, and her smile was frozen on her face. "You're lucky the department is even_ considering _searching for your friend. He's probably just a runaway criminal. Balthazar, did you say his name was?"

"Yes."

"We'll get back to you when we can. Until then..." the woman glanced around, and for a second Dean thought she had seen him watching. But as he snapped his head back, she turned back to the trench-coat man. "Until then you hold up your end of the deal. Do your job. Carry out order like a good little soldier, and we'll be back with news about your poor missing Balthazar."

She turned to the man, and beckoned with a plain hand.

"Uriel, Virgil. Let's go. There are orders from headquarters that need attending to."

With that, they strode across the parking lot, and all but melted into the darkness.

The man held still, his head still turned in the direction the three had left in. Dean was curious, all of the sudden. His end of the deal? Was this stranger actually _working_ for those sadistic creeps? He felt a shiver of automatic hatred run through him, but something made him stop. Something made him shift uncomfortably where he stood, and force himself to blink normally.

The man was whispering something, eyes closed. His head was tilted up, and he gazed at the sky through his flickering eyelids. Dean frowned. Was he..._praying_? He couldn't quite hear the words, but they didn't sound English. Instead, they sounded ancient, all at once beautiful and terrible, power seeping from them as easily as innocence.

When the man finally opened his eyes again and turned to face Dean, the rain had stopped completely, and a dull wind picked up instead.

Eyes. His eyes were the color of the sky.

But before Dean could say anything to explain his being there, the stranger lowered his gaze and brushed past, pushing the glass motel door open, and leaving Dean with the unexplainable feeling that he had just been ditched.

...


	2. Chapter 2

"Your room is on the fourth floor, sir," the bored motel clerk handed Dean a plastic key. The familiar insignia of a single feather was branded into the backside; this place was government property.

"Thanks." he pocketed the card, trying to bury his disgust. The clerk nodded, and went back to checking her nails.

The hallway was completely empty. It reminded Dean of something he couldn't quite place, the wind from outside fluttering the moth-eaten curtains along the windows. The floor was stained and dark, and the walls looked about to crumble where they stood.

"Friggin' creep show," Dean muttered to himself. He found the elevator as quickly as he could. He jabbed at the button angrily. This day couldn't possibly go worse for him; stuck in a storm, broken down car, and no where near closer to finding the agents that killed Mom. He sucked in a frustrated breath as the elevator dinged meekly, signalling it's return.

The doors slid open. There, in the corner of the elevator, was the man from before. He didn't even glance at Dean as he slipped into the room. He just focused on a spot on the ceiling, eyebrows knitted in evident concentration.

Dean had never felt more awkward in his life. He supposed he should have hated the man, as he was working for the government, but all he could feel was a sort of detached curiosity. Who was he? Why was he searching for that...Balthazar, was it? Odd name. But then, the woman agent had called him "Castiel", which sounded like a flower product. Dean snorted despite himself, giggling at his own joke.

"Is this your floor?" Dean jumped at the voice. The man was pointing to the doors of the elevator, which had come to a screeching halt. The flickering display above the sliding doors read "Floor Four" in neon and black. _Funny_, mused Dean. _I hadn't even not__iced.  
_

"Uh, yeah," Dean flashed his signature smile, but faltered when he noticed the cold expression on Castiel's face. Clearly he wasn't looking to make friends here, and Dean felt a spark of rebellious indignation at the look. _Well, tough luck for Chuckles over here_, he smirked. _Dean Winchester don't play nice._

He thrust his hand out, leaving his grin up and hoping it came over as cocky and carefree as possible.

"Dean, by the way," he said, holding the doors open as he leaned against them. "Dean, uh, Lee."

Castiel took his hand stiffly, and offered a slight quirk of a smile.

"Castiel."

"Nice to meet you, Cass."

"I didn't say Cass. I said–"

"I know what you said, buddy," Dean laughed. "I ain't about to choke out that mouthful every time I say your name."

Castiel blinked, and adjusted his tie with a vacant look of confusion. He seemed to pop out of his stupor, however, when Dean clapped him on the shoulder and left the elevator with a jaunty wave.

"Be seeing you, Cass," he called as the doors slithered shut.

"Yeah," Cass said to himself. "Be seeing you, Dean."

...

_Two shotguns, loaded with rock salt. White chalk. Iron blade, silver blade, four stakes, a sharpened spear. Axe. Dead man's blood. Regular automatic.  
_

Dean took a swig of whiskey. All across the motel bed, the contents of his life glittered under lamplight. He had to be prepared. There were things out there in the dark, things beside the government agents. Things he couldn't explain.

Although all he really cared about right now was getting some sleep, then getting the hell out of this town. He'd called Bobby shortly after finding his room, explaining his situation.

"Alright, ya idjit, don't get yer panties in a twist," Bobby had snapped over the phone. "I sent word ahead to Ellen and the boys, they know the delay. Just don't come whining to me when you lose those agents you been trailin'."

"Yeah, yeah, Bobby, I got you," Dean sighed, rubbing his jaw wearily. It had been a long day. "Tell Ellen to send Jo to take care of that vamp nest. She's got the balls to do it, if anyone does,"

"The hell I will! The woman will eat me alive if she finds out. I'll just get Rufus off his lazy ass and he'll get it wrapped up. Y'all just keep after those agents, boy. Don't worry." Bobby sounded suddenly very old, and the sound of a beer being cracked open was distant but sure. "Sam and Jess came over after you called, y'know."

"Oh." Dean gulped. "Right. And...?"

Bobby snorted, and took a swig.

"Sammy's one lucky bastard." Dean could almost see Bobby's exasperated eye-roll. "But he's got trouble written all over him. All of you do. Damn Winchesters."

"I'll call you from the Roadhouse, Bobby," Dean hung up before the older hunter could argue.

It was almost daylight. Dean rubbed sleep from his eyes. No, he couldn't rest. He had to work. There were things he needed to get straight.

The agent he had been looking for his entire life was named Azazel.

That was all Dean knew. He remembered flashes, snippets, cold voices. Southern accents. That was it. Azazel was spoke of in a sort of fearful reverence by all, his legendary feats more like violence then the work of a hero.

"That man does bad things," Ellen had snarled.

"Evil. God, he's just...evil, y'know?" Chuck had warned.

You stay the hell away from him, you idjit," Bobby had snapped.

Dean wasn't afraid of Azazel, though. And the bastard was only a few towns south according to his sources.

He drained the bottle of the last drop of whiskey, tossed it back onto the rumpled sheets, grabbed the smallest weapon, and headed out to get a bite to eat.

...

Castiel was always quiet. He hated the constant awkward silence that followed him, he really did, but honest to God he had no idea what to say sometimes.

"Wow, Cassie, you can really spoil a mood now, can't you?" Balthazar had always chided him. Gabriel said the same thing too, and had always regarded him with a sort of patronizing patience.

_Poor Castiel, innocent Castiel, naive, Castiel_. Their words meant well, but behind them he saw their pity. _He's just so lost sometimes_.

Well damn it all if he wanted to prove them wrong.

He slid unevenly into the bar as he always had. He had a way, Castiel. A way of entering a room without anyone ever noticing he was there. It was extremely helpful, especially now with Heaven always on the watch.

Heaven. The new government even had a fake-sounding _name_. They were liars, the lot of them.

"So," came the voice of the waitress. "Can I get you anything, sweetheart?"

Castiel blinked, and automatically tried to avoid "The Deathstare" as Gabriel had affectionately called it. He had a habit of looking too hard.

"Just a coffee," he answered, unsmiling. The waitress looked perplexed, almost as if she expected him to flirt.

"Oh. Okay. You call me if you need anything else, got it?" she wandered off, her cheeks a little red.

Castiel's mind drifted back towards thoughts of Heaven. They _must_ know where Balthazar was. They had to. It was all a hoax, their search and their deal.

The woman. Anna. He didn't trust her. His coffee came, and he stared at it emptily, thoughts of the red-head swirling blindly in his mind. She was hiding something.

And there was no way he was going to work for her. _No way._ She'd already given him a neat Manila folder, a little plastic cell phone, and a gun he had no idea how to use.

"Kill the man called Winchester," she'd said with a smile that sent shivers up Castiel's spine. "Kill him and we'll help you find your friend."

Castiel found that his coffee was starting to go cold. He sipped it dully, hunched over in his chair, trying to avoid any looks from the rather scrappy-looking bar goers. The last thing he needed was any distractions. Digging into the pocket of his trench-coat, he pulled out the cell phone. Running a finger along the raised bumps of the keys, he frowned.

He didn't even know any Winchesters, let alone where to find one. And what if he killed the wrong one? Would Anna enlist another wanderer to kill _him_, leave _him _in an unmarked grave? Castiel didn't want to think about the consequences.

"Cass?"

Castiel almost dropped the phone in shock. That voice, he'd heard it somewhere.

"Shit! It is you!" Dean Lee was walking over, a broad smile on his face. His short cinnamon hair was sticky with mist, and he waved joyfully as Castiel noticed him, elbowing his way through the crowd.

"Oh. Hello, Dean."

"Well don't pee yourself, dude. I'm not _that_ exciting." Dean pulled out the chair across from him, and flopped down in it. His dark green eyes flicked momentarily to the object in Castiel's hand, and they widened dramatically. "Holy...is that a _phone,_ Cass? Where the hell did you get that?"

"It is not of import," Castiel said hurriedly, scrambling to shove the phone back into his pocket.

Dean was smirking. He signaled for a drink, and leaned in conspiratorially towards Castiel.

"You talk like an old geezer," he said brightly.

"You smell like beer," Castiel found himself saying before he could stop himself. He blushed, cursing in his head. "I mean, I didn't–"

"Dude, chill," Dean seemed to find this all very amusing. "Only joking."

"Ah."

A not entirely uncomfortable silence befell the two. The waitress returned with Dean's drink, giving him a lustful wink. She gave Castiel a look of pity. He sighed inwardly.

...

Dean found himself watching Cass. The man seemed almost permanently perplexed about something, his expression always blank or questioning. His blue eyes looked at Dean with all the intensity of a friggin' laser beam, and Dean would be lying if he said it didn't creep the crap out of him. But still, Cass had an air of..._something_. That something made Dean really want to see him smile.

"Okay, so how about we play a few drinking games? Loosen that tie up, huh?" he raised his glass with what he hoped was a jaunty grin. "'Cause seriosuly, dude. You look like a tax accountant."

"What is a tax accountant?" Cass asked, tilting his head. He took a slow sip of coffee.

Jesus, the guy must have been a shut-in.

"Y'know. Dude who...um...accounts taxes?"

"You don't know." Cass raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, gimme a break. It ain't exactly 2012 and all is well in America, so I'm not really caught up on that corporate mumb-jumbo." He took a loud swig of beer. It gave his brain a nice, warm fuzz.

But Cass just looked down at the table, mumbling something about "work to do". He was out of his chair in seconds, and starting to wander towards the door, when Dean grabbed his arm.

"Hey, wait! Sit awhile. I'm bored, man. This town blows."

But Cass just looked at him sadly. The blue of his eyes was suddenly darker, suddenly deeper.

"I am sorry, Dean. It would be best if you stay out of my way."

And he pushed away, suddenly disappearing into the crowd.

Dean blinked. This was new. People didn't just _walk out_ on Dean Winchester. No, they were usually entranced in his charm, his grace, his...oh, who was he kidding? Dean knew he was damn good-looking, and that was why people liked him.

He sighed, and turned back towards the table. There, draped across the pushed-back chair, was Cass' beige trench-coat. The idiot had forgotten it in his rush to "do work" (whatever that meant).

He tried to ignore it–he really did. He flirted with the waitress, ordered another beer. Picked a fight with a redneck, and returned to the seat only to find curiosity flooding him.

"Oh, screw it." Dean reached across the table, and dragged the coat towards him. It was surprisingly heavy–the pockets were weighed down with something.

He scattered the contents on the table, guilt nibbling on the edges of his mind. But he pushed it aside, and squinted through the slight tipsy haze at Cass' belongings.

It wasn't much–the cell phone he'd had earlier, a crumpled folder, and what was definitely an illegal firearm. Dean put the gun back quickly, hoping nobody had spotted it. That would be rich.

There was also a faded photograph, laminated. The color had long since seeped back into the flimsy plastic, but Dean could just make out three faces.

One was familiar. Dark, just-out-of-bed hair, blue eyes, a disgruntled look. Definitely Cass. Although the picture had clearly been taken years ago, he could already see the seriousness in the man's face, the slight frown.

The other two, Dean couldn't recognize. A short, brown-haired man to the right of Cass had his arm thrown up in sort of a mock salute, his tongue sticking out, and his face screwed into a silly, cross-eyed look. The man to the left of Cass was trying very hard to hold in a smile–he was much older than the other two, at least a decade. The blonde hair was already showing signs of gray, and his face was lined slightly, as if time had suddenly caught up with him. He had an arm slung casually over Cass' shoulder, a mischevious glint in his eye.

Dean flipped the picture over. There, scrawled over the back, was a message in pen.

_Novak bros. and B. April 24, 2007._

He put the photo back carefully, with a twinge of...what was it? Pity? Amusement? No. Melancholy, he decided. Cass had had a life. Friends. Someone to snap this shot and embarass the crap out of him. All Dean had was an alcoholic dad who died, and a brother whom he missed more every day.

Next to the photo, the folder had shifted open.

Dean nearly choked on his beer as he read the paper inside.

_Kill Winchester._

...


	3. Chapter 3

_Dean never liked the color yellow. He was afraid of bees, the sun was too bright. Flowers told lies, lies about happiness. The color yellow was in everything he hated. _

_"I've been waiting for you,"  
_

_But the words weren't for him.  
_

_"Oh, big plans for you,"  
_

_Dean knew who they were for. He knew, but he didn't want to know. He had to find the words to tell someone, warn them.  
_

_But all he could remember was the color yellow.  
_

...

Wake up at five. Stumble from bed, sip of whiskey to drain away the nightmares. Stretch, shower, shave, dress. Pack the bags.

Dean was nearly out of the motel by six.

He shuffled down to the lobby to return his key, something thick and heavy at the back of his memory. As he handed the plastic card to the still-bored clerk through a haze of sleep, Dean dimly remembered a drink (or two), and a stranger who stood him up in a hurry.

"Hey,"

Dean wondered vaguely if the rough voice shouting even knew what time it was.

"I am talking to you!"

He considered telling him to shut his face. He pushed open the glass doors lazily with one hand.

"Hey! Dean!"

He stopped in his tracks. Memories of a photograph and a gun and an order to _kill Winchester_ slammed like a raw fist into his brain.

Dean hadn't returned Cass' trench-coat.

"Well, fuck."

...

Castiel fixed Dean with a hard stare.

"Where is it," he snarled. Dean was standing on the rain-soaked sidewalk, his eyes screwed in sudden realization. In his arms he held a bulging duffel, and his hair was tossed and wet from a recent shower. He looked so..._perplexed_. Yes, that was the right word. Castiel frowned, and held out his hand once more. "My trench-coat. Give it back."

"Oh. Oh shit, Cass, I'm sorry. I uh...I must have left it in the bar." Dean looked honestly apologetic for a moment. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously with his free hand. "Sorry...?"

Castiel's heart was thudding in his chest. He suddenly couldn't feel the ground underneath him, and he was vaguely aware of someone grabbing his arm, voice full of concern, before he snapped back to reality.

"I need to go get it..." he turned away from Dean. The bar was only a few blocks away, he could run, he could run and see if it was still there.

Castiel didn't want to know what _she_ would do to him if he didn't get it back. He remembered Gabriel coming home one day when he was small, a twisted, purple wrist cradled to his chest. There was a mark there, carved in red. A single feather. Heaven was merciless. They didn't like failures.

"I'll drive you. See? I've got a car. Baby here'll take us anywhere we wanna go," Dean suddenly piped up, leaning back to slap the hood of a low black car. It was shined with car, the windows sheer and the wheels an inky black. Castiel had to admit, it was a thing of beauty. Even if it was clearly illegal.

"Fine. But we need to hurry."

Dean had a marvelously crooked grin.

"Welcome aboard, Cass."

...

The bar was surprisingly empty. A low, pleading song played thick like molasses on the jukebox, and the day-time bartender wiped the counter with a soiled rag. She looked up to raise an eyebrow at Castiel.

"Lookin' for something, sweetheart?" She asked, leaning back on a heel to ball her fist at her waist.

"Yes. I believe I left an...an overcoat here?" he winced slightly at the awkward words (why, oh why hadn't God blessed him with the casual rudeness of his brother Gabriel?).

The bartender squinted, biting her pierced lip.

"Well, I dragged a trench-coat out into the trash out back a minute ago, and–"

"Thank you very much."

Castiel stumbled out the back door, pushing hard on the laminated wood. He emerged in the thin crawlspace between Building A and Building B, the air rank with trash and something sweet. Castiel felt lightheaded just being there, and a rat shuffled across his shoe.

Shivering, he pushed his way forward, spotting a beaten cardboard box leaning against the wall of the bar. It was labeled with a hastily scrawled "Garbage", and draped across the side was–he breathed a sigh of relief–the trench-coat.

But as Castiel yanked his jacket from the confines of the box, he realized suddenly how light it was.

How empty the pockets were.

The gun, the file, even the picture he kept folded neatly near him.

All gone.

He could almost feel the bones in him crack, Anna's red hair and vague smile leaning into his conscience like a brightly-colored doll. Balthazar was surely gone by now, and Castiel could do nothing at all to help him.

Dully, he fingered the thread-bare fabric of the coat. His fingers were numb with cold, and his breath came out in a shaded cloud from his lips.

"Oh, look what I found," came a sudden soft voice. Castiel turned too fast, losing his balance for a second. He squinted into the shadows of the suddenly far-too-dark alley, his eyes finally settling on a short shape leaning casually against a wall. "Looks like I found the sad little loser who's working for the g-men,"

A woman stepped from the shadows. In her hand, she held a file. On her lips, she wore a crooked grin.

"Well, isn't that lovely."

Castiel didn't know anything about criminals. He didn't know anything about dark alleys or bars or green-eyed strangers either, and his heart was screaming against his ribcage.

"Give me that," he managed after a moment, taking a step forward.

The woman laughed, wagging the folder. She had brown hair, in waves, and her leather jacket was rumpled and torn. A slice of dirt crossed her round cheek.

"Aww, you didn't say please, Clarence," she giggled. She took a step forward. "I bet you didn't think we'd find you, huh? What did Anna tell you? That we were all dead? Murdered?"

Castiel couldn't think straight. He needed those papers. He took another step forward, but something cold pressed into the back of his neck, a hand suddenly wrapped around his arm. The sharp blade of a knife cut into his skin, and Castiel felt a warm trickle down his shirt collar, down his spine.

"You see, we want to send those bitches over in Heaven a little message, Clarence," the woman was pocketing the file, and Castiel's stomach lurched. "A message that we're not gone. In fact, we're _coming_."

...

Dean smacked his palms against the bar counter, causing the admittedly hot bartender to drop her rag with a yelp.

"Did you see a guy come in here?" he asked, breathless. "Around my height, wearing a blue tie? Hair looked like he just lost a fight with a hairbrush?"

The girl pointed a finger at the back door. Dean swore violently, tossed a ten-dollar bill on the counter, and skidded towards the door.

He needed to ask Cass a few questions, needed to tell him to tell the government to _stick it up theirs_ and come gank Dean for themselves.

He needed (as an afterthought) to see those eyes again.

But the sight that greeted him as he flung open the door was about as unsavory as it could get.

Meg Masters smiled at him lazily, a look on her face that reminded Dean of a butcher about to carve up a ham. She was standing next to Tom, her brother.

And Cass, of course. He looked rather confused as to why Tom was pressing a knife into his throat, and Dean couldn't really blame him.

"Dean! How..._nice_ of you to join us!" Meg was raising a gun from nowhere, her eyes bright and her smile cracked open to reveal rows and rows of shiny white teeth.

He wasn't expecting the gunshot, or the sudden pain in his shoulder, or the wave of dizzy shock that smacked into him at the speed of a jet. Or the look of complete horror in Cass' usually blank face.

"DEAN!" he was shouting, clawing at Tom, "DEAN!"

But Dean didn't hear the rest, because he was fading into a silence broken only by the quiet joy of Meg's laughter and a single dot of bright yellow.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel woke up alone. He blinked once, vaguely aware of an unpleasant smell. Wherever he was, someone was bleeding out fast.

When he realized that that someone was Dean, a crashing wave of sudden memories slammed into him, and his breath caught sharp in his throat.

"Oh...dear." was all he could muster however, before the panicked silence fell in once more.

It appeared he was in some sort of abandoned house, the walls dark with age, and the windows boarded up and dull. His wrists and ankles were tied to the rusted metal folding chair he sat in, and in one corner, Dean was slumped in his own chair, a slow but steady sliver of red leaking from his right shoulder. That young woman; she had shot him. What had Dean said her name was? Mae, Mary, Maria, Meg. Meg. That was it.

Castiel let out a sigh. Okay. He could handle this. He just needed to get out of the ropes and over to Dean. With a determined gritting of his teeth, he tried twisting his hands against the bars of the chair, his shoulder aching already. But all he got out of it was a dull burning of the chafed skin, and a boatload of frustrated feelings.

So obviously he wasn't getting out. Castiel leaned back his neck, craning for a sign of a door, an open window. But everything in his plain of view was either bleeding or boarded, and he found himself glaring at the same line of unintelligible graffiti as panic gnawed at him once more.

He found himself thinking of Balthazar. Where was he? He'd left only a month ago, his bags packed into the back of his old Chevy Chevelle. "Visiting family," he'd said. "Some wonky family crap came up, be back in a jiffy. Don't worry, Cassie."

He had neglected to mention the fact that Heaven was after him. That eventually, he would fade away into the same abyss that all the rebels fell into. A nameless grave dug quietly, by a soldier.

A fly passed by Castiel, and he watched it land curiously on the top of Dean's head. It stretched it's lazy legs, flitted, and zoomed off again, out of Castiel's range of vision.

Suddenly, Dean's head snapped up.

"Jesus–!" he barked, upon waking. A bit of blood sprayed from his mouth, and he coughed, confused.

Then he caught sight of Castiel.

"Cass...dude...why are you...why am I...?" he mumbled, an eyebrow raised. When Castiel shrugged and offered a weak apologetic smile, Dean jerked up once more with a venomous snarl. "Meg! That little black-eyed bitch!" He then noticed the chair he was secured to, and gave a frustrated groan. "Son of a..."

"Dean," Castiel interrupted, trying to keep the anxiety from his voice. It made him sound like a robot. "You've been shot."

Dean glanced down at the blood-soiled folds of his Metallica t-shirt. His gold amulet was askew, and he grunted nonchalantly. "Oh. Eh, I've had worse."

"You have got to be kidding."

"No, really," he flashed a grin, and wiggled his eyebrows. "Besides, scars are sexy, right?"

Castiel was getting increasingly angry. Dean, it seemed, had failed to recognize the weight of their situation, or at least didn't deem it worth worrying about. Castiel closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths. He had to be calm. He had to help himself, if this ridiculous man wouldn't.

But when he opened his eyes again, Dean's chair was empty. Th fly had returned, and it landed amongst the suddenly undone rope that was draped across the back.

"Dean?" Castiel strained to turn his neck, the blindness of fear returning all too fast. It made his head spin, made his stomach churn with acid. "Dean, where did you–"

"Behind you, Cass," came the unnervingly uninterested reply from somewhere to the back of Castiel's chair. "Jesus, calm down. It's not like I'm gonna just _leave_ you here. You're annoying, but not _that_ annoying."

Castiel scoffed.

"You seem to be underestimating the situation," he began through gritted teeth, as he felt Dean start to untie his ropes. There was a grunt of pain, and Dean muttered a choice word about his shoulder. "Those...barbarians, from the bar. They'll be back, won't they?"

He finished the knots, and Castiel twisted to glare at him. He was pale, flecks of his own scarlet blood staining his face. But he managed a smirk as he gripped his injured shoulder with a tightened hand.

"What, the demons? Yeah, they'll be back. The stupid assholes will bring friends, too."

Castiel's heart nearly stopped. Had Dean said..._demons?_ The whole damned soul in Hell demons? The ones Castiel had grown up in dutiful fear of, as the church told of sin?

If so, how did Dean know of them?

But it seemed Dean was no longer watching him, instead pacing the room with a low mutter in his throat. Castiel stood abruptly, fists clenched by his side.

"You knew them. You knew the woman with the knife. Who is she? She stole my–"

"Shut up, Cass," Dean hissed.

"And for the millionth time, _Dean_, my name is not 'Cass'. My name is Castiel Novak and I am getting tired of your constant–"

"Castiel. Shut. The fuck. Up."

Dean was staring at something over Castiel's shoulder. His face had settled back into a grim line, the evidence of hardship clearly defined under the sweat and blood.

Castiel sighed.

"They're behind me, aren't they."

...

It had been years since Dean had seen Meg. He vaguely remembered a party, a barbecue, something quiet and familial and peaceful until she showed up and clung to Sam like slime on the sewer wall. Ten months, they had dated, before she dumped Sam violently and left to join the rebellion.

Hell's Demons, they called themselves. All leather jackets and dirty weapons and spiteful, mindless rage against the machine that was Heaven. Their leader Lucifer wasn't stupid though. He was careful. He didn't let loose ends dangle unattended; rather, he acted as the scissors themselves. One cut (a single gunshot) and all was well.

Castiel wasn't getting out of the empty house alive.

"Clarence. Dean. I see you've managed to free yourselves," Meg didn't look to happy about it. She tapped a heeled toes irritably on the dusty boards of the floor, and raised an eyebrow at Dean. "Your shoulder should be nearly drained about now. I give you twenty, thirty minutes tops."

She bit her lip. She'd gotten a bit chubbier since he last saw her, her eyes darker, her hair rattier. The tatters of a band shirt–covered by her smudged leather jacket–reeked of sweat. The demons were more interested in frag grenades and graffiti than showers, apparently.

"Oh, but then you'll miss the show!" she pouted. "Luci's coming, and he's not too happy about what Clarence was carryin' around in his pocket," she paused to look over at Cass, who matched her gaze with a stony glare. "You have a terrible sense of fashion, by the way," Meg sneered. "You look like a–"

"Holy tax accountant, yeah we get it." Dean snapped impatiently. He was getting tired of this, and the dull ache in his shoulder had escalated into a stabbing throb. He could feel the bullet tug nauseously against his muscle and bone. "C'mon, Meg. This guy couldn't hit the side of a barn with a tractor. He's no deadly agent."

Cass shot Dean a sharp glare, and Dean couldn't help but smirk. He honestly didn't know how good a shot the guy was, but if his social skills were any sign, he wasn't that much of threat. At least not physically. Hell, maybe he had some crazy superpowers or something.

"I don't see why you want to save him, Dean," Meg giggled. She had the crumpled file in her hand again, whipped from her pocket with a terrible glee. "He's got orders to kill you lyin' around, after all."

(_Kill Winchester_, Dean thought. _Kill Winchester._)

He'd told Cass his name was Dean Lee.

...

Lucifer walked with the leisure of a cat sidling up to a mousetrap, the rodent caught comfortably within. He didn't bother with weopons; Tom and Ruby flanked him with semi-automatics and knives packed tightly onto them. And this was his turf, his graveyard, his prison. He had baited the trap, and so the mice caught within were his to destroy.

This Dean Winchester was important, he knew. Not as important as his younger brother, and apparently a lot sassier, but important enough to warrant a personal visit from Hell's Demons very own Devil.

No, it was the other one he was smiling about as Lucifer pushed through the meager front gate, his sunglasses biting into the bridge of his nose. It had been ten, fifteen years, but he was sure Castiel would recognize him.

"It's been awhile," he chuckled to himself as he entered the front hall. "My brother."

...


	5. Chapter 5

_Novak summer house. June, twenty years previously._

Gabriel liked to tease Castiel. If it wasn't for his tendencies to wander off in stores or get distracted by bees or flowers or books or war documentaries, it was for the odd way he chose to speak.

"Cassie called me 'superfluous' today," he snickered to his best friend, Kali, as they sat lazily on the Novak's front porch. It was getting later, and a few fat mosquitoes drifted through the thick June air.

"Your brother's a little odd, isn't he?" Kali raised an eyebrow. She was threatening at best, terrifying at worst. Things tended to...catch fire, or disappear when she was upset. But she and Gabriel had had a love/hate thing going since junior high, and today was a 'love' day.

Castiel was standing off to the edge of the porch, his nose buried in the pages of To Kill A Mockingbird.

"Yeah, yeah, little moron's kinda cute that way," Gabriel shouted over to him, with a snicker. Kali rolled her eyes.

Castiel pretended not to hear. He was just getting to the part where Scout beat up that kid who said bad things about her father...

A car crunched up the drive, gravel spitting from the dusty wheels. Immediately, Castiel's head went up. Their father wasn't expected home for a few days, and their mother was at the church, praying. Normally Castiel would be there with her, but today...there was something about today.

So the car wasn't expected.

Out of it stepped a blonde man, hair slicked carefully back. He was young, not even twenty, Castiel guessed, and his face was clean shaven and sincere. His suit was immaculate, his eyes oddly icy.

Gabriel jumped up, kicking his legs against the dirt of the drive.

"Lucifer!" He shouted, Kali and the imperfections of his little brother suddenly forgotten. "You came back!"

The young man quirked barely a grin, spreading his arms out wide to intercept the barreling Gabriel.

"Gabe," he said quietly. "I missed you."

He eyes, poking over Gabriel's mane of pale brown hair, focused suddenly on Castiel. He felt uncomfortable for a moment, like something was missing in those cold irises. Something big.

Castiel just offered a tiny wave. He didn't like strangers much, and the Novaks were private people anyway. Nobody really bothered them, if they didn't bother anyone else, and Castiel liked it that way. He kept his eyes focused on Scout's battle.

"And you must be Castiel." the man's shadow stretched across him, and everything was cold for a minute, the flies and heat and dust of summer suddenly forgotten.

He raised his head to meet the eyes of Lucifer, daring the man to say something more. Castiel had a good poker face (although it often was employed in a villainous manner, with Gabriel cheating his friends out of money).

But the stranger didn't say a word; just gave that same, knowing smile, and entered the house.

Long after Gabriel followed and Kali left, Castiel stayed on that porch.

He felt oddly cold for days afterward.

...

Dean tried to ignore the pain, the _lack_ of pain, the flow of scarlet from his shoulder. He tried to ignore the guns trained on him, tried to ignore the business of flies.

He tried to ignore the shock on Cass' face. The betrayal.

That was the hardest.

"Oh, I see! You didn't tell him, did you?" Meg was still talking, giggling. "Oh, well put on a wig and call me Juliet this is a downright _tragedy_, Dean! Poor Clarence is a walking time-bomb, and you just flicked the switch–"

"Shut up." Cass snapped suddenly. His hands were balled awkwardly at his sides, his eyes squinted in anger. Suddenly, the blue of his eyes wasn't pretty. Suddenly, it reminded Dean of the inside of fire, dangerously close to sending everything up in flames.

And suddenly, he was terrified.

"You don't know what you've done," Cass was saying. His voice was low with menace. Meg took a step back, a smarmy grin still plastered on her grimy face. "You're tiny. A bug. I could destroy you in a single step, you know."

Dean blinked. Cass was no longer the socially inept, quiet loner he had pegged him as a day ago. Now he was something else, something..._dangerous_. And, Dean couldn't help but notice, kind of beautiful in a strange way.

"Cass, um, we need to–"

"I was not addressing you, Dean. I was speaking to the bug."

"Cass back off. They have guns. Lots of them. So, uh, calm down, dude. Like, seriously..." Dean was getting nervous. He was sweating terribly, and with every step Cass took, the demons surrounding them raised the barrels of their weapons, panic written underneath their eyes.

Just then, the door opened. Not so much opened, actually, as was thrown from it's hinges, but Dean didn't want to nitpick the details. All he knew was that everything in the room froze in an instant and he got the strangest feeling of something big coming, a gust of cool breeze.

"Is Meg being naughty again? I thought I told her to stop flirting with my guests,"

Dean recognized the man's face. He had seen it everywhere; wanted posters, Sam's research papers, riot signs. In truth, Lucifer looked different in person. Smaller, thinner, more human. His smile was darker. His clothes, dirtier.

Cass suddenly tensed, the power not yet drained from his eyes.

Lucifer raised his arms, and slowly walked forward, the warmest of apologetic pouts on his face now. There deep scars there, lacerations and complications and scabs that were pulled taut over cheekbone, as if he had recently fought with a fencer, or a cactus.

"You must be Castiel."

Dean's heart jumped.

"You've grown, I guess."

He tried to speak, but only saliva stuck in his throat.

"Fifteen years is a long time, though, I guess."

Lucifer stood right up in front of the stony Cass. There was a moment of silence, a silence in which Dean hated Lucifer with an intensity that surprised himself. He had to sit back on his heels and contemplate it for a moment, drink it in.

Lucifer placed a hand on Cass' shoulder, but Cass jerked away, the normal air of confusion slowly returning. He glanced at Dean and in that instant Dean could see a million different memories jump and flash away.

"Too long between brothers."

And when Lucifer held Cass in an embrace of a soldier back from war, Dean snapped.

There was only one thing to do: they had to leave, and fast.

...

_Novak summer house. July, fifteen years ago._

__"Lucifer!"

"Not now, Castiel. I'm leaving, okay? I have–"

"Just wait, okay? I want to ask you something."

"Dammit..."

"That's a bad word to say–"

"I know it's a fucking bad word, Castiel, just...just let me go, alright? I don't want this to be...hard."

"I apologize."

"Okay if you cry I'm gonna have to get Gabe to throw away all your chick flicks, Castiel."

"Listen. Lucifer. You need to tell me. Where are you going?"

"...somewher better. Somewhere...somewhere I can be free. _We_ can be free."

"We are free, Lucifer. This is America, I can go anywhere I want–"

"Not really, Castiel. It's a pretty damn nice cage, but we're all still birds."

"Lucifer..."

"See you, Castiel,"

"You are going to die, aren't you?"

"...You're a peculiar thing, Castiel."

"I hate you."

"One day, you'll understand. One day, we'll be free, all of the stupid little birds in their stupid little cage will all be free to peck and gnaw and eat and destroy."

"That sounds awful–"

"Trust me, Castiel. I will make it beautiful."

...


	6. Chapter 6

Lucifer let go of Castiel with a dull smile. There was a look in his eye, a certain shade that made Castiel shiver in his bones. It wasn't disinterest, it wasn't superiority or sadness or cruelty. Nothing he had seen before, in the two times his brother had visited the summer house.

This time, it was love.

_(Gabriel was leaving, leaving to join Heaven. Mother was dead, God didn't hear her crying. Father wasn't there, not all there at least. And Lucifer? Lucifer was brilliant. Lucifer was perfect. Lucifer was starting the End of the World.)_

"You know what they told me, Castiel?" He said his name softly, like velvet over a coffin. "They told me you were dead. They said you killed yourself after Father left. But I didn't believe that. You always had so much faith, brother. So much ill-placed faith in faces you couldn't see."

Lucifer bit his lips, and knotted his arms across his chest. He looked much older, now, and a disease of the skin was eating round red spots of raw flesh into his face. Castiel knew he was brilliant still.

"You can't say that. You left me. You left me and Gabriel and Mother and Father to ourselves. _You said it would be beautiful!_" Castiel didn't realize he was screaming until his fists were slamming into Lucifer's face, bone on bone. It hurt, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "You _betrayed_ me! _You betrayed all of us!_"

Somewhere, Dean was shouting. He could hear the strain, the confusion in the man's voice. Dean Winchester. Dean Lee. Dean Winchester. Dean Lee. Who was real, who was fake? The air smelled like flies and blood.

Someone tried to drag him off of Lucifer. Away from the King, the Morningstar, the rebel with a ready cause. But Castiel was angrier than he had ever been, hot tears sliding down his face.

"I TOLD YOU EVERYTHING. I TRUSTED YOU, AND YOU FELL ANYWAY!"

_(The car slid from the driveway, and from the house Mother whimpered to God, anyone who would listen. Gabriel broke things. Castiel waited on the porch. Father laughed, Father cried. The End had already come.)_

Castiel felt whoever was holding him fall as he slammed an elbow into their anonymous face, the warmth of their blood on his white dress shirt. He was standing again. Tears stained his vision, but he could see okay for a moment, a terrifying moment.

The room was in pieces. Dean was standing truimphant over an unconscious Meg, his shoulder clenched tightly in a white-knuckled grip, teeth gritted against the obvious pain. Two other demons lay, one behind Castiel, one beside Dean.

There were more coming, though. Their footsteps rang through the dusty air like the howls of wolves and Castiel finally remembered where he was.

What was happening.

The orders he had, the choices he had to make. Who he was with.

"You were always," came a quiet thoughtful voice from the floor. "Such a peculiar thing, Castiel."

Lucifer grinned through a broken mouth. Castiel hadn't done much, but "The Devil" sat cross-legged on the dirty wooden floor and stared up at him with a sad smile.

"You really don't understand anything. But I'll always love you. And one day, you'll come crawling back to me," he leaned forward, and Castiel took and involuntary step back, shuddering out a breath. "You wanna know why? We're the same, brother. _Exactly _the same."

The doors burst open. Dean shouted (_"shit oh shit oh shit")_, Castiel jumped, unsure of anything but the fear in his heart.

But Lucifer waved away the demons. Tom stared, open-mouthed, at the calmness of the man, his eyes flicking between Meg and Dean and Castiel and Lucifer.

"But sir, the Winchester boy–"

"Stand down, Tom,"

"And your brother–"

"I said, _stand down, Tom._" He smiled again. His teeth were red and loose. "They'll come back. They always do."

But Castiel didn't see anything else, because Dean was dragging him away.

...

The car was exactly where they parked it. Dean hadn't expected this, of course; he'd thought those fugly bastards would've laid their filthy paws all over Baby. With a smirk, he admitted their was hope for humanity yet.

"Let go of me, Dean Winchester."

Oh, right. He was still holding Cass.

"You ain't gonna spaz out on me again, right dude?" He unwraveled his arms from around Cass' waist, trying to ignore the fact that he could smell what shampoo he'd used that morning. _(The same girly shit as Sammy. Who woulda guessed._)

Cass' face was as blank as it could have possibly been. His eyes were vacant, unfocused, his mouth tight and grim. Dean felt worse–his shoulder wasn't getting any better.

"I do not spaz. I act upon reason and personal moral."

"Oh, so attacking your apparently long-lost psychopath brother?" Bullet wounds didn't hurt sarcasm in the Winchester boys. "Yeah, man, real _moral_. How come you didn't tell me you were a prince of Hell, huh? Didn't cross your mind?"

Cass didn't even move. Just kept staring over the hood of Baby, not so much as a twitch. A strand of bed-head wandered across his forehead, but he didn't move to touch it.

"I am meant to kill you," he said at last, quietly, calmly. "I am meant to kill you so I can live again."

"Because some tight-ass Heaven chick said so? C'mon, man, suck it up! Fight back! You're not their...their..._puppet._ Their good little _soldier_. You're just a nerdy dude in a trench coat, okay?"

Silence. The street was quiet, the pain was nearly unbearable. But he had had worse, and he would stitch his wounds and drink his pain away later. Right now, he had to deal with this.

But–

"They know where his is."

"What?"

"They are going to kill him. They are going to kill him unless I do this."

Dean blinked, and shifted uncomfortably. He remembered, only last night, a snatch of conversation concerning three agents, Cass, and a man called B on the back of a photograph.

"Balthazar, huh?" He ran a hand over his jaw. He needed a shave. He needed a drink. "Who was he?"

Cass smiled just a little then. Still, he did not look at Dean, did not turn.

"My boyfriend," he said quietly.

Oh, thought Dean.

"Oh," said Dean.

The car ride back was slightly uncomfortable.

...

_Once upon a time in a far away land, there was a socially awkward idiot and a mysterious stranger. They were happy and dating and woo-fucking-hoo_, thought Dean as he chugged his fifth beer.

The motel room they were at now was only slightly better than the one they had met at twenty-four hours previously. Meaning, Dean couldn't exactly see the disgusting stains, but that just meant they were better hidden. A cigarette butt here, a spider nest there, and voila, a shoulder wrapped in gauze.

Oh, and Cass was spectacularly drunk.

"I don't understand," he slurred from his awkward curled-up position on the couch in front of the battered TV set (Dean wanted the bed, thank-you-very-much). "If the pizzaman loves her so much–"

"Oh, for the love of Metallica, Cass, were you raised under a rock?"

"...not that I am aware of."

He was even grammatically correct while drunk. Great. Dean found himself missing Jo and Ellen and Ash with their stupidly funny drunk stories.

But this was okay. He stretched, yawning, and stood somewhat clumsily. Dean Winchester could hold his beer, and after three he was only a bit fuzzy around the edges. But Cass...well. He was practically a saint when it came to _anything_ apparently. This was his "first attempt at intoxification by alcoholic beverage".

Dean plopped himself down next to Cass, and snatched the remote.

"Look, I'll show you something worth watching."

He flicked through channels until he found an old James Bond, mid-explosion. Cass looked disgruntled.

"Too loud," he muttered.

It had been a long day.

They sat in content silence for a moment. Dean flashed back to the same sentence, over and over, while Cass frowned at the television with growing drowsiness.

_He was my boyfriend_.

"Hey, Cass?"

"Yes, Dean Winchester?"

"I'm gonna help you. I'm gonna help you kick that Anna bitch's ass. And then we're gonna kick your psycho brother's ass. And then we're going to buy you a new outfit 'cause you look like a banker."

"Okie-dokie."

Dean couldn't help but smile.

Ten minutes later, Mr. Bond was escaping death by crocodile, and Cass was sound asleep on Dean's shoulder, a slight snoring emitting from his general direction.

He looked almost happy, now. The trauma was gone, replaced by the telltale flicker of dreams underneath his eyelids, and Dean felt kinda sorry for the guy, in a weird way. Like he was losing everything.

Just like Dean.

His cell rang two minutes and forty-three seconds later.

"Hey,"

"Dean?"

_Sammy._

_"_Dean, you there?"

"Yeah, man. You okay? How's Bobby? He being a crotchety old bugger again?" Dean chuckled, shifting slightly so as to push Cass' head off of him a little. He wasn't fond of...well, _friendship_.

The silence that followed Sam's monotone made everything turn black and white.

"Dean," said Sam. "Jess is dead."

...


	7. Chapter 7

The bus route to Lawrence from Sioux Falls was new. There was talk of malfunctions, talk of Heaven interferences, talk of crime, but Sam Winchester didn't care.

Everything was gray now.

The plastic seats lining the station. The .45 packed into his duffle. The hex bag hung on leather string from his neck. The bus itself, inching into the station with a shudder of electrical power.

Because she was gone, and she wasn't coming back.

_Fire. _

Sam picked up his duffle, and boarded the bus quietly, like any normal citizen should.

_Too much fire. Where was she, where was she? _

He found a seat relatively quickly, smiled at the old woman across the aisle. The floor of the bus rumbled softly, and the final passengers squeezed into their seats. Still, Sam Winchester was silent.

_The ceiling, Sammy, check the damn ceiling. Pieces of plaster, ash and dust and oh so much blood up there. Wonder how she got up there, Sammy._

The nine-thirty bus to Lawrence was a long, long ride.

Before the end, Sam Winchester had changed.

Before the end, he had vowed his revenge.

...

Castiel had a bitch of a hangover. Not that he'd ever admit it to Dean, but it was honestly the worst thing he had ever experienced.

"Advil, dumbass," Dean had thrown a small brown-red pill at Castiel's head, a satisfied smirk playing on his face when he made his mark. "What, they don't have these in Magical Rainbow Land?"

Recently, his new companion had taken to making fun of everything Castiel did or said.

"Your tie's always backwards, man. It looks stupid."

"Still a virgin? Awkward, dude."

"If you say you don't like pie one more time, I will punch a wall."

"One word, Cass. Consonants."

It never ended. Castiel couldn't really bring himself to complain, though; he found himself liking Dean. Maybe it was the loud voice, or the stupid jokes Castiel never understood, or the fact that the smallest thing could make him smile.

Or maybe it was just the fact that for the first time since..._ever_, Castiel had a friend.

So a few misguided insults and medication tablets couldn't hurt.

...

As soon as they were on the road, Castiel noticed something different about Dean. There was a worry there, a knot of something that hadn't existed before.

"Dean," he said, as soon as the Impala (or Baby, according to Dean) was out on the rain-slicked freeway. "Is your shoulder hurting you again?"

Snort.

"No," he replied. A white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. "Why?"

They turned a sharp corner, and Castiel took a moment to watch the greys and browns of after-rain scenery pass them by. They were headed for Lawrence, Lawrence in Kansas, and Castiel hadn't even been out of the county yet. It was exciting, to say the least.

"Because you look rather disconcerted."

"English, Cass."

"Troubled."

Dean shot him an emerald glance of exasperation.

"And why would that be?"

"You tell me."

A silence fell over them once again, and Castiel let his shoulder lean into the cool glass of the shotgun-side window. His headache was not yet gone, and every bump the Impala stumbled over made him flinch unexpectedly. Alcohol would take some getting used to.

He couldn't even remember anything that _happened_ after...after...(he didn't want to say it, didn't want to believe it). The hotel was a blur, bright colors, loud noises, a cell phone ringing as he drifted off to sleep...

He hoped, somewhat cautiously, that he and _Dean _hadn't...

No. Castiel blinked rapidly as if to cleanse any more rogue thoughts from his mind. No, of course not. They were _adults_. _Responsible_ adults.

Well, except for Dean.

"You okay over there, Mr. Comatose?"

It was going to be a long car ride.

...

Sam Winchester noticed something very different about his brother the instant he laid eyes on him. His face was the usual stubborn mask of normality, his smile screwed into something more like a grimace, yet still as funny and, well..._relieving, _as it had always been to Sam. Maybe, he told himself, as he made his way across the parking lot. Maybe it was the gunshot wound he could make out in his shoulder, carefully stitched. Or maybe it was the after affects of alcohol showing in his gait.

Or maybe it was the guy who followed him out of the car.

They were laughing. They hadn't even noticed Sam, on the other side of the street, his beaten duffle and a blurry picture of sanity following him. Sam: the smart one, the emotional one, The One Who Was Going Somewhere. Watching his brother and a _friend_ laugh and talk like he wasn't there.

Like Jess had never died.

Sam found himself hating the man he had never met.

Dean was making a joke, making a face, and the dark-haired stranger in the white dress shirt and rumpled blue tie was smirking. The door of the Impala slammed, and Sam's heart thudded in his chest with the _unfairness_ of it all.

"Sammy!"

Dean jogged over, and his mask slipped and fell, the lines of joy replaced by lines of uncomfortable pity, uncomfortable love, uncomfortable _everything_.

"Jesus, Sam, I missed you," his brother moved to hug him, pulling him into an embrace once reserved for a quiet, bookish Sam. A Sam four inches shorter and a whole lot happier.

"Dean."

He let himself be hugged. Dean smelled familiar; leather and greasy diner food. Dean was Dean. His brother. He would never die.

"Hey, so, um...this is..." Dean broke away, motioning behind him towards where the stranger was standing. It seemed the stranger was very interested in a bee wandering across the sky, and Dean had to snap his fingers in front of his face to bring his attention back to Sam. "This is Cass. Castiel Novak."

_Castiel. Funny name._

"You okay, Sam?"

No. A hundred times no.

"Yeah, man. Just...just a little tired, y'know?"

_Fire._

_She's on the ceiling, Sammy. Check up there, Sammy.  
_

_Castiel Novak.  
_

_Dean was Dean and Dean was familiar.  
_

_Fire.  
_

_Fire.  
_

_FIRE.  
_

Sam Winchester forced a tight smile.

"Nice to meet you, Cass. I'm Sam. The other Winchester."

...

Anna Milton sat at her desk, as she had every day for the past ten years.

It was a pleasant existence, this, one she never regretted in the slightest.

There was always someone there, after all, to wash the blood from her hands if she needed it.

"Uriel," she sighed into her cell, tapping one long nail one the shined mahogany surface of her desk. It was expensive, imported from some forest deep in a third-world country, and she loathed to let it go filthy. "I'm waiting for the results of Angel Blue."

There was a silence.

"The one with Winchester, ma'am?"

Anna choked back a snort of disgust. The name reeked of filth, and Anna _hated_ filth.

"Yes, Uriel. The Winchester boy. I want to make sure Novak is carrying out his orders as planned." She bit her tongue as she said this, adjusting the polyester-cotton of her suit and knitting her eyebrows together. "He's to kill the right one. There's two, you know."

Silence again.

"Dammit, Uriel! Intel! I want intel."

"Yes, ma'am. And which Winchester is it?"

Anna had to pause for this. It would be so easy, she mused with a quirk of a grin, to just say both. Both of them. But that wouldn't do; Michael would have her strung from the rooftops and gutted for such disobedience, such _filth_, and she would not have that. Oh, she would not have that.

"The youngest one," she answered. "Not Dean. Sam. Sam Winchester."

With a click, Anna Milton hung up.

Angel Blue was supposed to be a tricky operation.

But it was so _easy_ for her, for Anna the Angel.

All it took was one naive idiot who believed his boyfriend was still alive, and a pair of _filthy filthy _brothers.

...


	8. Chapter 8

The Impala was quiet for the first time in twenty-odd years.

Dean felt the engine hum beneath him, felt the windows shiver from the vibrations of it. The Lego pieces jammed God-knows-where rattle incessantly, a constant thrum of noise.

But it is still silent.

Dean tries to recall the last time he sat in the front seat with Sammy riding shotgun. He managed to dredge up a few sepia-colored memories of a high school graduation, a fight, and a final day before Stanford.

But it was gone before he could blink.

Sam leaned against the window as he had always done, the cool glass nothing short of numb on his forehead. He didn't want to show Dean his face. There was sadness there, he knew, and he could feel the pity radiating out of his brother in depressingly familiar, unintentionally crude waves. Dean never did know how to handle tragedy–Sam was always the "touchy-feely, self-help, yoga-crap" brother, and Dean was just..._not_. He wasn't.

Sam didn't feel like diving into his soul for a How Do You Feel Today one-on-one. He didn't feel like a hug, or a cold beer, or even the sound of AC/DC blasting through ancient speakers just like old times.

He felt, in short, like dying.

...

Castiel didn't understand the Winchesters. One minute, Dean Winchester is scathingly describing the pros and cons of _Titanic_, yet another movie Castiel has yet to see, and the next, his eyebrows are knotted together in furious anger, alternating between worried looks shot towards his brother and the frustrated grinding of his teeth.

Sam Winchester was quieter, but Castiel can see _inside_ him, past the hazel eyes and mop of brown hair. He can see sadness and anger and a whole lot of _revengepainrevengefirereveng e_. He doesn't quite know what it means, but he can only hope it has nothing to do with him.

Of course, now he has to find out which brother he's supposed to kill.

Dean didn't really seem to care about the "project" Anna had given Castiel. He'd only drunkenly patted his head in a motel room and promised to help, promised to save him.

Sam didn't even know, and Castiel wasn't sure he wanted him too. The man, though four-ish years younger (according to Dean), was much taller than Castiel, and he found himself almost fearing him out of respect. Besides, he seemed...nice. Intelligent. He shook Castiel's hand and forced a half-smile that reminded him suddenly of Balthazar and said something nice. Nice was good. Nice was scary. Castiel wasn't used to nice.

And it really didn't help that both Winchesters were very attractive.

...

_Four years previously..._

"Cassie, where'd you put my car keys?"

"How would I know, Balthazar? I do not drive."

Balthazar raised an eyebrow.

"We're going to be late for dinner if you keep stalling, silly," he sighed, his accent flattening a little as he grinned. "And you know how much of a hard-ass Michael is."

Castiel leaned against the kitchen counter and shrugged. He fiddled with the end of his blue tie–he could never really get that thing tied right, no matter how hard he tried.

"I still don't see why we even have to visit him. He doesn't like me..." he said quietly. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored cabinet, his black hair all over the place. Yesterday, he'd gotten a hair cut, (or at least tried) and still it looked awkward. He sighed. "Besides, this suit makes me look like a...a..."

"Tax accountant?" Balthazar pulled him into a sloppy hug. "Naw, you look cute. Besides, you can always wear that horrible sweater instead."

And Castiel laughed at that.

...

There was only one place Sam really wanted to go, and that was bed. He was tired, more tired than he had ever been before, and everything around him was too bright, too loud, too alive. He glanced at Dean sideways.

"I'm not going to let you go off on your own, Sammy," Dean said without looking at him, as if he could read his mind. "Never again. Stanford was okay, but friggin' Sioux Falls and..." He took a deep breath, glancing into the backseat. Cass was sprawled across the leather, fast asleep. Good. He didn't need to hear this. "Is Bobby good? House not too burned?"

"Dean, I don't want to–"

"Talk about it? Yeah, well, suck it up, bitch. I'm your older brother. I'm here for you."

The car bumped along. Sam had dumped his rental, his own duffel now stowed neatly above Dean's guns and holy water.

"You don't understand, Dean. She was _on the ceiling_. There was fire everywhere, and you just think you can get me to _talk it out_?" He took a deep, shuddering breath, pushing his bangs from his face.

"Yeah, I do understand. Mom died like that too. Or did you forget that?" Dean was trying not to talk too loud, but his knuckles where white, white, white on the steering wheel. "It was probably the same sick bastard, too. And I'm going to find him and rip his friggin' _eyes_ out."

"You can't solve it, Dean," Sam aid quietly. Too quietly. "You can't fix it. You can only bury it, and it pisses me off how shallow that is."

"I'm not burying. I'm trying to kill the sicko who destroyed us!" by now Dean was shouting and he didn't care anymore. Cass was awake in the back, blinking.

He glanced curiously at the two brothers, and in that moment Dean's heart nearly stopped.

He didn't want Cass to know. He didn't want the pity, the disgusting feeling that he didn't deserve any of the craptastic sadness that leaked off of other people when the heard about his equally craptastic existence. Now, Sam was just as craptastic too, and Cass wasn't gonna see a second of it, not on Dean's watch.

"Go back to sleep, Mr. Comatose," he snapped, harsher than he intended. "This isn't any of your business."

Sam curled his lips back in an emotionless smile at this, crossing his arms impatiently as Dean allowed the Impala to shudder to a stop.

"You even treat your BFF like shit, Dean? I thought you were trying to help me–"

"_Dammit, I am, Sammy!_" Dean screamed this time, slapping his hand on the steering wheel. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't comprehend anything but the white-hot grief that came spewing from his mouth like the waves of a grey, grey ocean. "This is all so fucking unfair! First Mom, then Jess. Hell, we're lucky friggin' Bobby hasn't kicked the can yet! And I swear to God, if I lose you, I will never forgive myself. I will _never_ forgive myself!"

Sam was silent.

Cass was quiet.

Dean felt a sliver of anger slide, almost completely unnoticed, through his heart as he watched their unmoving faces.

Then Sam spoke, and when he did, Dean was reminded suddenly of a day a long, long time ago when he'd said the exact thing to Sam. When Sam was so small, Dean could fit him in his arms and Daddy was so sad, the world smelled like alcohol and bullet casings.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he said. "I'm so, so sorry."

...

_One year previously..._

"Cassie, there's someone I'd like you to meet."

Balthazar laid his fork down beside his untouched casserole, his mouth tugged into a grimace. Castiel was used to that look–ever since Balthazar had gotten a job at the government offices downtown, he'd come home day after day with the expression of someone who had just lost their favorite pet.

Castiel tilted his head sideways, a bad habit that Gabriel used to tease him about when they were young. The casserole he'd spent all day making was suddenly dry and tasteless, like wet cardboard in his mouth. He swallowed nervously.

"Um, okay...? Is this...work related?"

Again with the smile. It made Castiel nervous, made him squirm. Heaven in general made him uncomfortable; every time he met a government agent they'd _stare_ at him, size him up, as if expecting him to freak out like a lunatic, or maybe burst into tears.

"Yeah well, see, I'm going away for a few days. With a Big Cheese type fellow, guy who's gonna give me a promotion if all goes well. And I want you to meet them first. Y'know. Suss 'em out." he raised an eyebrow. "You always did have a good judge of character."

"Yes. So that is a yes." Castiel was getting impatient. Balthazar ran a hand through his close-cropped blonde hair. He sighed. "What's their name, then?"

Balthazar sighed.

"Raphael," he replied. "His name is Raphael."

...

**A/N: Hey, so I know I've been virtually silent for the past few chapters, but I just wanna give you a heads up: next week I have finals, so updating may be slow until the holidays. Probably more like a chapter or two a week, rather than every few days. Sorry! Also, love the reviews, keep 'em coming. **

**And because I didn't before:  
**

**Disclaimer: Don't own.  
**

**Warnings: Angst. Like, bring out yer tissues, folks. Violence, but not much. No dirty stuff (unless you're an Angel of the Lord and consider flirting, kissing, and/or holding hands dirty).  
**

**Pairings: Destiel, past mentions of Sam/Jess, Castiel/Balthazar. Sam/Lucifer might pop up later, plus another surprise pairing for tension!  
**

**Thanks and lots o' love,  
**

**chaoswalking  
**


	9. Chapter 9

_Stab my heart like a stick in the mud_  
_ Cut my chest just to see the blood_  
_ Now I'm singing out the alphabet_  
_ As the tears are putting out my cigarette_  
_ We'll hit the cemetary so we can see the holiday lights_  
_ Waking up the dead and everything'll be alright_

"Angel Blue" Green Day

Meg watched Lucifer pace the cramped office with the sense of something dangerous to come. He hadn't spoken much since the trench-coat guy and the Winchester slime left, but she could nearly smell the tension, hear it when he breathed,

"Sir–" she began nervously. It was time for the daily report.

"They say that every time a person dies, their entire life in judged in an instant." Lucifer paused, and folded his arms across his chest. "Imagine that, Meg darling. Imagine every moment, every wayward decision measured precisely in the smallest possible amount of time."

Meg swallowed nervously. She knew what happened when Lucifer got philosophical, and she'd heard the screams to prove it.

"Yeah, okay. Kinda weird, I guess...?" she intones. But Lucifer ignores her, face slack with a gentle smile.

"It's the most unfair of all cosmic theories, Meggy," he continued. "All that life, all that living, all that sin? Poured out and sculpted into a tiny frame of a person in one second. _Bam!" _He clapped his hands suddenly, and Meg jumped despite herself. "Where do all the in-betweeners go? Where? Purgatory? Or is it Heaven? Maybe Hell is just for bad, bad folks, or maybe it just holds everyone but the saints."

"Sir, I don't really see where this is–"

"And what of me, Meg? What of me? I have sinned." Lucifer looked thoughtful again. He rocked back on his heels, rubbing his palms together, cold eyes glinting with sudden tears. "I have sinned, but I have done great things, too. And what did I get in return?"

Meg sees a warehouse full of dead bodies, posters with phone numbers, a siren in the dead of night.

Lucifer sees nothing.

"I got the ungrateful scorn of my family and the sadistic oppression of Heaven."

"That's messed up, sir. You must be pissed." She wasn't great at the touchy-feely. Luckily, Lucifer seemed not to notice.

"They want a Devil, do they?" He breathed, a light chuckle that scared the shit out of Meg ghosting across his lips. "I'll give them a Devil."

He broke away from his pace to smile at Meg, his hand reaching up to stroke her cheek.

"Meg. Call Alistair. I want my brother brought home again."

...

Sam pushed his back into the wall of the motel bathroom, his eyelids already drooping. The plaster was cool and cracked under the pads of his fingertips, and the roaring headache he'd acquired was momentarily lost in the sensation of skin against chipping paint.

There was a knock on the door.

He jerked his eyes open just in time to see Cass, a toothbrush clasped in his hand and an expression of confusion plastered on his face.

"I'm sorry, Sam Winchester," he said in a dull monotone, raising an eyebrow. "I did not realize this room was occupied."

"Ah, no, it's...it's fine, Casteel." Sam forced a smile. "I'm just thinking, you can brush your teeth."

Cass quirked his head to the side, and Sam thought for a moment he looked like a rather large, feather-less bird.

"It's Castiel," he replied. "Why are 'just thinking' whilst in the bathroom?" he shuffled over to the sink, still giving Sam a curious, blue-eyed stare. Sam smirked. This guy was odd, very odd. It was...refreshing.

"'Cause Dean is watching _Dr. Sexy _out there and every time that show comes on a kitten dies." He jerked a thumb towards the half-open door.

Cass' eyes widened, and he held the tube of crusted Crest mid-squirt, looking terrified.

"Not for real. It was a joke, man." Sam explained hastily.

"Ah. I see. Haha." Castiel (not a girl's name, Sam told himself, not a girl's name) continued brushing. He didn't sound all too amused. Sam leaned away from the wall, making to head out to the living room again. But Cass turned, mouth full of foam, and cleared his throat.

"I am sorry, Sam Winchester," he said.

Sam frowned. Dean said Castiel didn't know anything.

"For what, man?"

Cass canted his head again, and this time it was an elegant movement, a sign of contemplation.

"For everything. You have a sad soul."

And he turned around and continued brushing his teeth, humming what appeared to be a hymn under his breath.

...

Dean didn't look up as his brother sat down on the opposite bed with a deflated sigh. He kept watching the TV, getting lost in the colored pixels. God, he needed it.

"Is Cass normal?" Sam asked after a minute or two. Dean grunted.

"Oh, yeah, real Average Joe there," he said sarcastically, taking a hearty swig of Sierra Nevada. "Sammy, he doesn't even know what _porn_ is."

Sam collapsed on the bed. The dust and cigarette ash from years of use shifted in the thick air, and he sighed. Closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath.

Dean shot him a glance.

He didn't have to ask his little brother what he was seeing. He could see written there, on a face far too young to hold it. Any moment now Sam could break like glass, and he would have to pick up the pieces without cutting himself.

"It's gonna be okay, Sam." He said quietly, fiddling with his beer. He focused on the screen again. He wanted to be lost again, lost in a different world. "I'll make sure of that."

...

Five o' clock. The sun was sour and weak, like a bad whiskey, and the air smelled of ice and sweat in the motel parking lot.

It had been two weeks. Two weeks since Dean, caught in the rain, had met a stranger outside a seedy dive just like this.

He crossed the pavement, scraping sleep from his aching eyes with balled fists. A coffee was clutched in his hand, black, and it smelled vaguely of plastic.

"Jesus Christ," Dean mumbles as he fumbles for his car keys outside the motel room. Castiel is leaning against the railing there, red-brown dust gathering in the creases of his returned trench-coat. He looks peaceful there, Dean decides. His black hair is shifting slightly in the wind, his pale eyes nearly closed as he listens to the early-morning birds. dean could have sworn the corners of his mouth lifted in a smile, but he couldn't be sure, not now.

"No. I am Castiel."

"Pardon?"

"I am not Jesus Christ."

Dean laughed, and Cass tilted his head in that infuriating bird twist. He bit his lip.

"I do not see what is funny." He didn't move his gaze, his eyes following a greasy pigeon as it hopped over a flattened can of Coke. Dean smiled again.

"You're so fucking funny, dude," he sighed, taking a quick chug of coffee with a grimace. "Sometimes..." he paused to giggle again. "Anyway, me an' Sammy are gonna head up east to nab a shifter. You comin'?"

When Castiel finally turned, Dean was shocked to see the sudden look of happiness on his face. It wasn't much–a raise of an eyebrow, the ever-so-slight squinting of an eye–but God did it make Dean feel good.

"Yes, Dean. I think I am."

...

Sam locked the motel door. He gave himself a once-over: jacket, extra keys to the Impala, a locket given to him by Jess. He was ready to leave, already dead tired of Lawrence. He was born there, he knew, but he remembered nothing of the place save awkward, fragmented memories that came in headache form, shifting and churning.

Dean and Castiel were already in the Impala–Sam could make out Dean yelling something over his shoulder at Cass, the opening notes of an Iron Maiden song ripping muffled across the parking lot. He smirked.

"Dean made a friend," he thought to himself.

Yeah. Friend.

Nothing more.

Sam allowed himself another crooked smile, pushing back a bit of hair from his face and setting out across the parking lot. It was completely empty, save for a single man sitting on the curb.

As he passed, Sam glanced down at the figure, alone on the sidewalk. The man was tall and thin, a pock-marked face and crooked teeth bunched inward as if he had swallowed chemicals. Still, the man wore a smile that sent a snake of shivers up Sam's spine.

The figure fiddled with a pocketknife. It was dark with something.

The _snip snip_ of the blade against his jagged nails was hauntingly loud in the empty parking lot.

_"Heaven, I'm in Heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly_ speak." He was singing softly, the barest edges of a lisp slurring the words. Sam didn't recognize the song.

_"And I seem to find the happiness I see. When we're out together dancing, cheek to cheek."_

He tipped his head as Sam went by.

"Howdy," he called out. "Beautiful morning, ain't it?"

Sam hurried into the Impala, and when he was safely settled shotgun beside Dean, he noticed he's been clutching the keys to his palm, the indents leaving red welts in his skin. As the car pulled out, the sound of quiet singing could be heard over the sound of the morning birds.

"_Dance with me, I want my arm about you. The charm about you will carry me thro' to Heaven._"

...


	10. Chapter 10

_His church is the body, but where is the blood_?  
_ He's centering himself inside the castles built with mud_  
_ He's full of cheap, cheap grace_  
_ But as for faith_  
_ He has none_.

"Jill Plays Tricks, Jack Plays God" by Sent by Ravens

* * *

The sounds of death were nothing new to Alastair. He listened to them with giddy ears, every octave a slight of joy in his head. He counted them, collected them as some would collect stamps in different colors, different patterns. Every death he had caused he kept bottled and pickled in imaginary labeled jars, dusty on his mental shelf.

He wasn't the typical sociopathic, homicidal psycho. No, Alastair was different. He was careful, precise, no-mistakes. He didn't leave threads untied, strings uncut. No need to worry about survivors–there were none. Some would say he was _special_, others _insane_. The ones who knew him best, however, would categorize him only as _unnatural_, with abilities beyond the spectrum of a normal man.

Alastair was a monster, but he was a clever monster, efficient and cunning one.

And he was damn good at his job.

...

"Hey, how'd you get the Impala?" Sam asked Dean, fiddling absent-mindedly with the radio dials. "Thought you were driving my car."

"Got it locked away in a storage container off the highway," Dean said, checking over his shoulder as a pick-up truck merged beside him. "Baby's 'bout as illegal as they come, and I wanted her safe. Figured I'd pick her up for our little road trip."

"Yeah. About that." Sam coughed, trying to fold his legs beneath him in a more comfortable way. He was tall, taller than Dean had ever remembered, and the space between the dash and the seat was tidy but small. "Dean, I'm coming with you."

"Hell no, Sammy. I'm dropping you off at the Roadhouse after this hunt and you and Jo can braid each other's hair or something until I finish this, got it?"

"I'm not a kid anymore, Dean! You can't control me! I need to do this. I need to find the monster that killed Jess." Sam knotted his arms across his chest. "You're letting Cass come, and he's ditzier than I am."

"Cass can hear you, Sam Winchester," came a less-than-pleased grumble from the backseat. "And he is not enjoying this car ride."

Dean groaned loudly. It was like having two little brothers instead of one, and the one in the backseat was definitely looking a little green in the face. Maybe he should tone down on the swerving and u-turns.

"Look, Sam: I don't want to lose you. Not like this. Not now. I can't handle that, Sammy." He paused to suck in a deep breath. "I won't handle it."

There was a silence. Dean pulled the Impala gently into the parking lot of a 76, his brow furrowed, eyes dark.

"You won't have to," Sam said quietly, with a smirk. "I'm not gonna die on you, you jerk."

A sigh.

"Bitch."

...

Dean got out of the Impala feeling considerably lighter than he had when he had entered it four hours ago. It might not have been the perfect scenario, but at least Sam was happy. Dean could work on the whole "revenge scheme" issue later, when he had had a cup of coffee and at least one slice of pie.

He hummed to himself as he grabbed the gas nozzle, poking it into the side of Baby. The morning had turned crisp and beautiful, and the pale sunlight threw delicate shadows over the graffiti-slathered angles of the 76. Dean couldn't help but feel a little better, a little less burdened.

He fingered aimlessly with his amulet, the cool metal peaceful against his fingertips. It was then that he noticed Cass leaning against the side of the car, arms crossed in front of his chest, eyebrows knitted together in obvious concentration..

Dean knew exactly what he's thinking.

He remembered vaguely Castiel telling the Heaven agents that Balthazar had been gone for two years, legitimately missing for a month. With a frown, Dean wondered where Balthazar could have been before that, not there but there, missing but legally known. It couldn't have been good, judging on the sticky situation it had landed Castiel in.

Cass, he realized, was holding one of Dean's discarded flasks in a clenched fist, expression stoic as usual. He didn't even acknowledge Dean as he darted over to him, concerned.

"Dude, what the hell? It's nine in the friggin' morning!" he snatched the flask from Cass' hands, a flare-up of anger suddenly burning his throat. "And you're only gotten drunk once, so don't you dare say you can handle it."

"You consume alcohol as you wake up, Dean," Castiel replied with an innocent stare.

"Yeah but I'm _special._"

"I fail to see how. All you've managed to do is lie to me about your brother and drag me around the country on some vague mission." Cass answered, his voice rising a little. Still, he did not face Dean, and still, Dean wished he would for just one moment. He could never see beyond the well-kept facade Castiel maintained; it was a sturdy wall, impenetrable, and Dean knew he couldn't break it with anger.

"Fine. I'm sorry. Now will you cut the booze until at least noon?"

Cass tilted his head, eyes wide.

"I never said it was alcohol."

Dean shifted on his feet, frustrated. Surely Cass hadn't just let him lose it like that over...well, whatever was in the flask. He rolled his eyes, and Cass squinted his in obvious confusion.

"Okay, I'll bite. What is it?"

"Jack Daniels."

"Dammit, Cass!"

Another half-smile, another almost-break in the wall.

"I brought it out here for you, Dean."

And despite himself, Dean was shocked. He blanked for a moment, and all he could register was the dull _tick tick_ of the gas meter rising nearby. Then, he cleared his throat.

"Oh," he said. "Um...thank you...?"

_(Well hell, _he thought then, to himself. _Since when did I become Awkward Dude #2?_)

Cass gave a brief nod, finally turning to look at Dean fully. He smiled again, crookedly.

"You are most welcome, Dean Winchester."

Dean rather liked that smile. He fidgeted nervously, suddenly realizing how close he was to Cass. So close he could see where Cass had mis-tied his tie, the tag sticking haphazardly from the blue silk like a little white surrender flag. He resisted the urge to straighten it.

And then he realized it.

Dean was _crushing_ on his best friend.

"Dean, I think you're stepping on my foot."

"Oh! Sorry, man," Dean coughed, jumping a step back, which caused the flask to tumble from his hand–and all over his jacket. "Dammit! Ah, now I smell like booze," he mumbled. His flannel jacket was sticky and wet now, and he removed grumpily, his Kansas shirt underneath far too thin for the morning chill.

Sam was chuckling from the Impala, his head stuck out the window. Even Cass looked amused, letting out a tiny laugh at Dean's expense.

"Oh shut up, you Sasquatch," he grumbled, tossing the gross jacket into Sam's now visible face. "And you," he said, jabbing a finger at Cass, who gave him a look of smug satisfaction. "You stop being so friggin' nice, you asshole."

Castiel was laughing now, a real laugh. His shoulders shook slightly, and as he laughed he turned to face Dean.

For the first time in days, he looked happy. The clouds usually gathered right behind his eyes, the hazy screens, were gone. Instead they were bright and alive and so very human, Dean grinned too, an odd warm feeling in his head.

He leaned forward, suddenly distracted, and grabbed Cass' tie. With a yank, he straightened it out. It had been bothering him.

"This thing keeps coming undone, huh?" he sighed dramatically. "Oh whatever shall we do with you, Castiel?"

"I find this infernal tie quite confusing. It's far too complicated." Cass pouted a little. "And besides, you can tie it for me. Right, Dean?"

"Yeah Dean, like a butler," Sam sniggered from Baby again.

But Dean wasn't listening to him. He leaned forward again, and kissed Castiel.

...

Castiel wasn't sure what he was expecting–another joke, or maybe one of those sarcastic quips that Dean seemed to have locked and loaded for any given moment's notice, ready to fire. Even a hug.

Definitely not this.

Sure, Cass liked Dean. Maybe more than liked.

But _Balthazar–_

He broke away from Dean with a shove, probably a little too fast, and brought a hand to his mouth.

"No," he said, nearly shouted. "No, no. I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so...I have to..."

He looked around, desperate for an escape. Sam was staring at him, wide-eyed but concerned, ready to jump out and calm him down. But Dean looked even more shocked than Castiel. He stood completely still, staring at the place that Cass had just occupied.

"I'll get you some paper towels for the um...the jacket," Castiel muttered aimlessly, backing away.

_Dean had kissed him. Not even on the lips, not even seriously. But still...what would Balthazar think? What would he say?_

"No, Cass, wait! I didn't mean–"

"It's okay, Dean. Just let him go," Sam sounded surprised. Castiel didn't stick around to hear him finish. Instead, he located the nearest bathroom, head spinning, and pushed his way through the door.

...

He leaned into the sink. Let his hands clutch the stained porcelain tight, turn white, then red, then begin to numb. It was quiet there. He could think.

Castiel stared at his reflection. A zig-zag of graffiti crossed the mirror glass, jagged and confused.

Guilt had sharp teeth.

After a minute, two, he leaned back, remembering what he had promised to do. He grabbed a paper towel from the clunky automatic dispenser, avoiding a marauding cockroach, and shoved it under the squeaky tap. The dull public water ran in tiny rivers over the thin paper, and Cass took a deep breath.

It was okay. He could deal with this. It wasn't like he was in love with Dean–he just liked him. A lot. Balthazar had been gone awhile now, and it wasn't like Castiel was doing nothing to save him. In fact, he was risking everything to do so.

Was he in love?

He stopped the tap, and ran a hand through his dark hair nervously.

Was he really?

But just then the thick plaster door swung open, and another traveler wandered in. Castiel quickly pocketed the clean towel, shoving thoughts of Dean from his head. He needed to be calm, act natural. He liked the Winchesters, and didn't want to mess this up. For once, he actually had friends, real friends.

He wrapped a hand around the doorknob, the dried halo of bubblegum smooth and shiny like a welt against his palm. Just as he opened the door, the other man cleared his throat and sighed a distraught sigh.

"Oh whatever shall we do with you," Alastair sang. "Castiel."


	11. Chapter 11

_I need to watch things die_  
_ From a distance_.  
_ Vicariously I live while the whole world dies_  
_ You all need it too, don't lie_

"Vicarious" by Tool

* * *

_One year previously..._

Castiel took a deep breath. He didn't really like suits–he preferred sweaters, or his tan trench-coat that Gabe had given him last fall–but lately, Balthazar had needed him to put on one at a minutes notice, one high-class colleague after another coming barging into their home.

It wasn't even as if Balthazar was home that often. Castiel often spent months alone at home. He'd gotten a job at a used bookstore downtown, but he wasn't really equipped for customer service, and he often shelved books the wrong way (he liked doing it by color and size, much to the dismay of his superiors). So for the most part he wandered the house, humming to himself, wishing to God something new would happen.

This was new.

"Cassie," Balthazar, finally home, called from downstairs. "Cassie, Raphael will be here any second! What the bloody hell are you doing up there?"

"Be down in a minute," Castiel called back down. He looked back at himself in the mirror. In a fit of OCD, Balthazar had insisted he trim his hair a little, and had shoved a bottle of product into his hands with the sentiment of getting rid of Castiel's unfortunate case of 'morning-after hair'. It looked exactly the same, just a little fancier. Castiel sighed, trying to be positive.

This was the first time Balthazar had been home in weeks. The house looked nice, dinner was all sorted out, and Castiel liked the new blue tie Balthazar had bought him wherever he had been for work the month before. It was silky and thin, and matched Castiel's favorite sweater perfectly.

"Moron," Gabriel had tried to tell Castiel once, when they were visiting for the holidays a few years ago. "You don't wear ties with sweaters. You wear them with nice shirts, bro."

He didn't really care, though. It was the last present Balthazar had really thought to get him, and as it stood, it was also the last sign of normality. Heaven was taking over Balthazar's life, and in context, Castiel's.

"They're here, Cassie! Come down, for God's sake!"

The doorbell sang wearily, and he quickly left the bathroom, tripping down the stairs. Everything smelled like roast downstairs–he'd been told Raphael was fond of a good hearty meal–and Balthazar waited nervously by the door. He flashed a brief smile in Castiel's direction before opening the door.

...

The tie was covered in blood. In truth, he couldn't be bothered to wonder how it got there, or why it was even there at all. He just wanted it out, wanted the scarlet to seep out from the azure as easily as it had sunk in.

The floor of the bathroom was slick and cold, and smelled vaguely of ashes. His broken lip pressed against the tile, and even in the rotten grip of darkness (the bulb had gotten smashed, broken in an instant), he could see the smudged shape of the man, the pearly outline of his cracked teeth.

"Tick tock, family toils," the man sighed.

Castiel stared back at his tie. He wanted badly to rip it off, to save it from whatever was about to happen. Dean had fixed it for him, he remembered. Dean was waiting for his paper towel.

"Your brother is a stupid man, you know," the man said. He kicked Castiel's side, and a sliver of bone jerked out of position, a new spasm of pain moments behind. "All patience and smiles. You'd think he'd want a little more _violence_ with a name like his."

"You...don't know anything..." Castiel coughed. Anger coursed through him, thick as bile, but all he could choke out was blood.

"And who's to say I don't know anything, Castiel?" the man sang. "God? You religious folks, all caught up in your delusions."

He leaned down to whisper. A trickle of blood wormed out of Castiel's mouth, sliding silent onto the floor.

"But here's the news. Extra, extra, read all about it!" A laugh. "God ain't up there, and he don't care about you anyways."

The fabric was becoming violet, becoming black with leakage. Castiel couldn't feel his face anymore: his jaw was definitely broken, his nose probably too. But all he could see was the destroyed pigmentation of the silk.

"Liar," he whispered into the tile. "Liar."

"Liar? Named after an angel and yet _so, so stupid_!" The man laughed again. He took a moment, uncurled, stood to pace the bathroom beneath the dying fluorescence. "The only ones who can save you don't even care about you. Dean Winchester? How low, Castiel Novak. How very low of you."

The anger was overpowering now, pressing violently against the back of his brain, the bottom of his heart. Castiel clenched his teeth, curling his fingers underneath him, scraping the tile again with a sickening _squish_. He was going to die. He was going to die, and he was going to die a coward who couldn't even defend his friend's name.

He wanted to scream.

Instead, he started to laugh.

"Low?" He gasped. "Low? I am not low. You are." He pushed himself up onto his knees, a shuddering breath and a spark of pain in his spine. "You wait for orders, wait for Lucifer to call you forth. But all you are to him is a puppet and he is going to break your strings when he is done with you."

Castiel stood to face the man. He noticed now the scars, the missing teeth, the crooked smile frozen there in shock and mockery.

He smiled back.

"I am not going to die. Lucifer loves me." He coughed again, slipping a hand slowly into his trench-coat pocket. Under his palm, he felt the smooth tug of metal on skin, the careful grooves of the gun handle. "But he does not even remember your name."

With that, Castiel yanked the gun from his pocket, closed his eyes, and fired.

...

The gunshot was nothing new to the road. Every day or so, a wacko with a death wish would fire shots in the middle of the freeway, cursing whatever travesty wrecked them that day. It was common. People were mad.

This was different.

Dean glanced at his brother once. They needed no words; it was a benefit of their relationship, a telepathic, subconscious link to each other's thoughts. They were brothers. They knew the same thing.

"Cass," Sam said.

Dean started to run.

...

_One year previously..._

Raphael did not smile. He did not laugh at Balthazar's jokes, or shake Castiel's hand, or even raise a glass towards the toast.

"I assume this is your roommate," he said in a low voice instead, staring mildly across the table at Castiel. Balthazar shifted uncomfortably.

"Ah..." he shot a glance at Castiel, who offered a weak smile. "No. No, this is my, uh, boyfriend."

Raphael raised an eyebrow. Surprisingly, he smirked, and took a sip of his wine.

"I see," he said "I see."

All in all, Balthazar's new boss frightened Castiel. He wasn't particularly menacing physically–he was around Balthazar's height, dark-skinned, and had a mild-mannered look about him–but there was an air about him. An air of power and authority.

They ate in silence. Castiel found his meal to taste like nothing at all, and his water was dangerously low (he didn't drink, not yet). Scraping back his chair, he mumbled something about going to get some more water from the tap. Balthazar shot him a worried glance that quickly evaporated into frustration. As if to say, _way to go, Cassie. You're interrupting, you know that?  
_

Castiel reached the kitchen. He shut the door behind him, and slumped against it, eyes closed.

For a moment, he could imagine a future. A future in which Balthazar was no longer an empty suit, and there was no executive sitting at his dinner table. A world where Castiel drove off in a nice car and left the town, the county, the country, God, everything behind.

A world where he was free.

But Balthazar called him from the dining room and he remembered how thirsty he was and that dessert was on the stove and he was in reality again.

...

Dean slammed his shoulder into the bathroom door, sending a wave of light into the darkened room. He was breathing heavily, his mind a spinning mess. There was only one word going through his mind, only one name.

_CassCassCassCass_–

"Cass?"

He stared. Castiel stood in the middle of the room, his hand outstretched, knuckles white around the pistol. He turned, slowly, at the sound of Dean's voice, and Dean saw that his face was smashed: his jaw was swollen, his lip busted, a stream of blood leaking from his nose.

On the floor at his feet lay the body of a man, a single jagged hole carved into his forehead. The bullet had gone clean through.

Castiel frowned.

"Dean," he said. "I think this man is dead."

And then he collapsed.

...

**A/N: To all my Christmas-celebrating readers: may the next two days be wonderful! **

**P.S. Sorry 'bout the angst...  
**


	12. Chapter 12

_Hold it together, birds of a feather,_  
_ Nothing but lies and crooked wings._  
_ I have the answer, spreading the cancer,_  
_ You are the faith inside me._

"Evil Angel" by Breaking Benjamin

* * *

The hospital smelled of disinfectant and a paradoxical hopelessness. The waiting room teemed with injuries, and the E.R. was loud, loud, loud.

Sam held Castiel up, barely registering what was happening. He'd only known the guy for two weeks; in fact, he wasn't even particularly fond of him. And yet, here he was, dragging him into the emergency room like he'd done for Dean, Dean had done for him, oh-so many times in their childhood.

The nurse on call looked wide-eyed up at Sam and Castiel.

"I'll get the paramedics," she mumbled once, before dashing out from behind the Formica counter-top. Sam noticed a little figurine of an angel resting there on the laminate. It smiled emptily back at him.

_Half-an-hour earlier..._

"Cass? Oh, shit...Cass!" Dean jerked Castiel's head up, trying to yank him back into consciousness. Blood pooled at the knees of his jeans, but he didn't seem to care, his face screwed in concentration.

"Dean, that's..." Sam didn't have to go any farther. The man slumped against the cool tile of the bathroom was still breathing slightly, his limbs spasming. One eye was open, dark and watery, pulled open tautly to stare in disbelief at the sight before him. He was dying, broken, but Sam recognized him.

He had sung quiet song by the roadside that morning, a smile painted on his face.

Dean was losing it. His head came up when he heard the man gasp for air, and Sam hadn't seen anger like that since...since he had left for Stanford. Since Dad had died.

"Sam, get Cass out of here," he muttered, venomous. "I'm going to have a chat with this ass-clown."

...

"Sir, we're going to need an I.D." the paramedic was trying to calm Sam down. Her name tag read Leslie, and her hair was the color of sewer water.

"My brother'll be here in a minute. Please, just...just fix him, okay?"

Castiel was starting to wake up.

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't–"

"Give her my I.D., Sam," came a quiet, rough voice. Castiel was holding out a bloody hand, a plastic identification card clutched in his fist. It was smeared with scarlet, but Sam plucked it carefully from his grasp and shoved it at the frazzled Leslie.

She gave it one glance, wide-eyed, before running off again.

Sam stared at Cass.

"Dude," he said simply.

Castiel smiled through broken teeth.

...

_Twenty minutes earlier..._

Dean emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, sprayed with someone else's blood.

"His name was Alastair. He worked for Lucifer." he kicked open the Impala door, slumping in the front seat. "We should get Cass to a motel, stitch him up."

Sam shook his head.

"Dean, he needs a hospital. Look at his face!"

"No!" Dean snapped, leaning as far back in the seat as it would let him. "No, I can't–I can't do hospitals. No."

In the backseat, Sam could see a careful circle of blood letting out from Castiel, staining the prized leather of the seat. Panic fluttered in his head.

"I don't care, Dean. He'll die if we don't."

...

The doctor shut the door to room 2277 with a sour look on his face. He crossed his arms over his white coat, and frowned at Sam.

"You said you were his brother?"

"Ah. no. Friend. His friend."

Down the hall, a monitor beeped dully, the sound of hushed voices overriding Sam's nerves. He didn't like hospitals either–they reminded him of the night Jess died. (_"Burns, Mr. Winchester. Too many burns. I'm sorry for your loss."_)

"Well Mr. Novak isn't in critical condition. It looks like he just needs some rest and painkillers. I've got him on some now. He should be out in..." the doctor checked the chart he held in gloved hands. "Three and a half weeks, roughly."

"_Weeks?_" Sam choked out. "We can't wait weeks. Isn't there something you can do _now_?"

"Look, Mr...?"

"Um, Wesson. Sam Wesson."

The doctor sighed dramatically. He wore an exasperated expression, and talked with a thick British accent.

"This man literally _broke his face_, plus three ribs and two fingers. He's not going anywhere." He raised an eyebrow. "Whatever did this, did it good."

"Yeah, well, he's gotta be out of here in the next three days," Sam replied shortly. The hunt couldn't wait for too long–people were dying. He took a deep breath, and raised himself up to full height. "Isn't there anything you can do, Doctor..." he paused to squint at the name-tag pinned neatly to the white coat's breast pocket. "Doctor Crowley?"

Dr. Crowley offered another dry smile.

"'Fraid not," he said. "Now excuse me, I've go a job to do." He moved to push past Sam. Just then, the sound of shouting came down the hall, followed by a certain distinct voice.

"Get the hell out of my way!" Dean was barreling down the hall, his leather jacket stained with blood. Spotting Sam and Dr. Crowley, he rushed forward, forehead furrowed in frustration.

"Oh great, it's another pushy jackass, come to complain at me," the doctor mumbled, garnering a dark glare from Sam.

Dean looked at Sam, desperate.

"Is...is he?"

"Yeah. Dean, he's okay, but he's gonna have to stay here awhile."

Dr. Crowley looked amused. Dean frowned again, the grip on his cell phone increasing. Sam took a moment to wonder vaguely what exactly Dean had done to Alastair. He'd stepped outside to "make a few calls" before Sam could properly question him.

"Hell he is. Let me talk to him–he'll be fine." _Because he has to be. For you_. Sam held back a derisive snort.

Dr. Crowley rolled his eyes dramatically, but didn't stop Dean from throwing open the door to room 2277. In fact, if Sam didn't know better, he'd swear the doctor found all of this amusing. He followed behind the brothers as they entered the room, the smell of stale antibiotics and cheap scrubs ever-present in the small space.

They were all shocked, however, to find Castiel sitting upright in the hospital bed, wearing his blood-stained trench-coat. He was staring out the window, eyes vacant. In his hands draped his ruined tie. He didn't even shift when Dean said his name (quietly at first then louder, a desperate bark). He just gazed out into the darkness of the hospital parking lot.

It was then that Sam noticed.

Castiel was completely healed.

...


	13. Chapter 13

_Don't be shocked that people die.  
Be surprised you're still alive._

"Cassie (Acoustic)" by Flyleaf

* * *

_Castiel was completely healed._

Dean's heart skidded to a stop in his chest. It felt, for a moment, like his mind was a cement truck reeling into the metal siding on the freeway. He blinked once, mouth open.

"Cass?"

Dr. Crowley looked mildly shocked. Sam, behind him, rested his hands on his hips and rocked back with the look of a kid who had just walked in on his parents kissing.

"Cass, what the hell is this?"

Castiel shifted slightly on the mint hospital sheets. He fiddled with the neon admission wrist band, still not looking at Dean. After a moment, he turned around fully, eyes squinted in confusion.

"I fail to see what is the matter, Dean," he said, after a pause, his voice low and innocent. Dean threw his hands in the air, glancing furiously at Sam for some back-up. When he received nothing but a numb shrug in return, he turned to face Cass again.

"The matter, Cass? _The matter?_ When I left you, you had no friggin' _jaw bone_. And now you're...you're..." he gestured wildly at Castiel.

"I believe the term you are looking for is 'smashing'," Dr. Crowley yawned from the doorway. He smirked lightly at the frown from Castiel. "What? I happen to like the silent and mysterious type."

Dean waved the doctor away frantically, still not registering the obvious fact.

"Cass, dude. You completely healed in less than an hour. What the hell is that?" He didn't wait for a response, instead stomping forward to grab Castiel's arm and drag him forward. He noticed the bloody tie with a flash of confusion, but ignored it as he pulled Cass towards the door. "You know what? We're leaving. And when we get in the car, you better explain your nerdy ass or I swear to God, or whatever, that I will leave you at the next tourist trap we see."

"Dean calm down–" Sam started forward, but Dean brushed past him. He shut the door loudly, slamming it in his brother and Dr. Crowley's faces with a bang. He turned then to face Cass, letting go of his arm.

"Okay. Ten minutes to explain. Go."

Castiel just stared at him. There was a spark of anger there, the same anger Dean had seen aimed at Meg and Lucifer, and the same anger undoubtedly used to kill Alastair in the gas station bathroom. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by a narrowing of very blue eyes.

"I have no explanation."

"Really. None? Because that seems like a load of bull, Cass."

"Do not call me that."

"I'll call you whatever I damn well please," Dean snapped before he could stop himself. _What the hell am I doing?_ He wondered vaguely to himself. _This is _not _the smooth Dean I want to be around this guy_. He took a deep breath, wishing then he had a cold beer and a loud bar to calm his nerves. "Okay. Sorry, Castiel," (he tried not to be too sarcastic, tried not to sneer to much). "I'm just a little freaked, that's all. I mean, first your mission to kill me, or Sam, or whoever, and then your creepy-ass brother. Who is a total douchebag, BTW. And then when you get obliterated by some Hell-bent demon you just...I dunno, magic it all away? It just doesn't make sense to me, alright?"

Castiel was silent a moment. He kept tugging at the band around his wrist until Dean rolled his eyes and flicked his hand around.

"You kissed me," he said after a minute. "You kissed me, Dean."

"Yeah. I suppose I did." _Funny thing, memory. Stupid, stupid Dean!_ He mentally slapped himself. "So what?"

"Dean, I am in a relationship." Castiel snarled suddenly.

"You said he ditched you!"

"I said he was missing," Cass looked away. "And I never asked for your help anyhow," he snarled.

"Oh, c'mon, Cass! Just tell me why you healed that fast!" Dean felt his nerves start to fray, panic setting in once more. He didn't want Cass to have secrets. He wanted him to be perfect, the best friend Dean had never had.

"Why must you know? I am fine, is that not what you came for?"

Dean couldn't answer that right away.

Castiel turned away, his shoulders hunched in his oversized trench-coat, his hair sticking up slightly in the back.

"Goodbye, Dean," he said without turning around. "I hope you and Sam live a long, blessed life."

It was ten whole seconds before Dean realized what that entailed. In a single panic-driven movement, he caught up with Cass, whirled him around, and wrapped his arms around him in the girliest hug he'd ever let himself unleash.

"I want to know because I think I love you, dumbass," he said into Castiel's hair. "And so I can kill the son of a bitch bitch who made you the friggin' X-Men."

Castiel squinted in confusion, canting his head.

"I don't understand that reference."

Dean pulled away to ruffle Cass' dark hair. No matter how mysteriously powerful the guy was, it seemed he would never be able to fix his perpetual case of "Disgruntled Owl Hair".

"Yeah, man, I get that. You were raised a hippie slash Bible-worshipper."

"I was not!"

"Pshh. You quote friggin' _Megatron_, dude!"

"It's _Metatron, _ Dean, and I don't–"

The door opened slowly. Sam poked his head out, bangs flopping.

"Guys? You okay? 'Cause this Crowley guy is starting to creep me out," he hissed desperately. With a smirk, he noticed Dean's hand in Castiel's hair, a single eyebrow creeping up his face. "Um..am I interrupting something, lovebirds?"

Dean responded simply by sticking his tongue out.

...

In the quiet of a park at night, the man in black sat with his eyes closed on a park bench.

The park was in some affluent community, adjacent to San Francisco, and dotted with redwoods and aging artists. He'd chosen the place carefully, seated himself on a bench shaped like a turtle. There, a line of thin moonlight illuminated him.

He flicked carefully through his mind, shifting through memories and dates and information fed to him by the angry woman named Anna Milton. _Technically_, thought the man, _I'm the superior. The king. But technically, she has more intel._

"Angel Blue," he muttered to himself. "The Winchesters still live, huh?"

Vaguely, he remembered a fire. Twenty-two years ago, meant to starch those nasty hunters out forever. One was killed, burned to death in front of her children. Three escaped, accursed with the memory forever.

And now, one was being hunted as he fell in love.

One was being tortured slowly through the deaths of those he loved already.

And one was already dead, having drank himself into a stupor he could not undo.

The man smiled, and shifted on the turtle bench. Across from him, the destitute whine of a dying creek echoed throughout the old park.

"Azazel failed," he muttered, standing slowly. "Azazel failed."

He shoved his hands into his pockets, head twisted down as a car rolled by, and exited the park still chuckling.

"I won't fail."

As he left, he pulled his left hand from his pocket, slicing the pad of his ring finger sharply against the zipper of his jacket, and frowning deeply at the tiny scarlet cut.

He twitched his finger.

The cut disappeared.

And the man continued his walk with a satisfied hum on his lips.

...

**A/N: Hey! Just so you know (for future reference), Dean and Sam are the same ages as they were in S1. Like, twenty-six and twenty-two (ish). So, Castiel should be a little older than Dean. Why S1? 'Cause Sammy had adorable bangs :D.**

**Virtual pie for those who guess the new baddie.  
**

**Love ya. -chaoswalking  
**


	14. Chapter 14

_As I sharpen my teeth and stare at the sun  
When I wake I will hunger no more  
Oh satisfaction was the bread of the day  
But somehow I tamed the beast  
And they made me their king  
But those evil eyes were focused  
So I said be still...and I dropped my cr__own_

"The Hungry King" by Sent by Ravens

* * *

It didn't take long to get out of the hospital. Dean flashed the on-call nurse a mega-watt smile, and Sam gave her his signature shy grin. She melted. Castiel Novak was never there.

Of course, Dr. Crowley wasn't as easy. He'd protested at first, something of a glint in his dark eyes.

"Oh come on, boys," he sighed dramatically, leaning against the still ajar door. "Stay awhile. Drinks on me."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, no offense, guy, but we hardly know you. And you're never gonna see us again."

The doctor gave a grin of shiny, oddly sharp teeth.

"You'd be surprised, Jolly Green."

It was Castiel's turn to intervene: he looked appropriately ruffled, head tilted as he leaned in to stare at Crowley.

"You have a dark soul. I do not trust you." He frowned. "I suggest we leave and never return, Sam Winchester." He addressed Sam without looking at him, his eyes remaining pinned on the smirking doctor.

"It's just Sam, Cass..." Sam mumbled moodily in reply. Still, he agreed. There was something _off_ about Crowley, something that wormed its way into the back of his skull and gnawed at the worry there like a parasite. He didn't trust him, flat-out.

"Well pardon, kitten, but I'm not the freak who healed my friggin' _crushed ribcage_ in three minutes," Crowley snarled back at Cass, looking uncomfortably smug about it all. "So I'd back slowly before we end up making out here."

Castiel looked confused.

"What does making–"

"Okay, Chuckles, time to go," Dean snatched Cass' elbow, steering him away from the still leering Crowley. "Look man, you gotta keep quiet on this. Ix-nay on the ealing-hay. Look, we'll even pay you, right Sammy?"

Sam sighed laboriously, pulling his wallet from his jean pocket.

"Yeah. Sure." He yanked a few spare hundreds from the leather, shoving them at the doctor. "Merry Christmas."

Ten minutes later, they were huddled in the Impala, Dean already fiddling excitedly with the dials of the radio, his eyes sparking when "For Whom The Bell Tolls" began to play. He was gone with the opening chords.

But as they pulled away, already destined for their somewhat delayed hunt, Sam couldn't help but glance back up at the murky light emitting from the hospital window for room 2277.

He could have sworn he saw a silhouette there, but when he looked again, the room was dark as the rest.

...

Crowley fished his cell from his pocket with a sideways laugh. It was too easy, really. Far too easy.

He started to dial the familiar number, fingers itching for the buttons, but he paused just before.

Why, he wondered off-handedly, should I bow to Lucifer?

_I could be King._

He smiled. He was so hungry, after all, for some little piece of wasteland for himself. Years of working government jobs had made him restless, fruitless, cruel, and viscious.

His phone rang, discordant amongst his thoughts.

"Cheers," he barked into the receiver. "Who the Hell is this?"

A quiet laugh from the other end.

"Hell itself, my dear Crowley."

"Lucy. Joy." Crowley forced a jaunty edge to his voice. He was still affiliated with Hell, still attached in more ways than one. That whore of a bitch Meg had roped him into this. All he'd wanted was a cool million in counterfeit, a nice mansion, a personal tailor, and maybe an army or two. Was that too hard to ask?

"I missed that sarcastic whine," Lucifer said on the other end. He sounded tense, frustrated.

"And I missed the taste of your boots, Lucy, but I'm busy now, so scram. Toodles!" He moved to hang up. Down the hospital hall, a monitor started to moan dangerously.

"Oh, but Crowley, I heard you got a visitor today."

"How did you–"

"Ears and eyes," Lucifer laughed. "I have them everywhere."

The monitor suddenly stopped wailing, and Crowley found himself wishing for the distraction again, something to tide his disgust.

"No idea what you're on about, mate," The lie was electrifying on his tongue, and he felt his confidence return on reckless feet. "This place is about as dull as a PG-13 rom-com, maybe duller." He didn't need to mention the plaid-clad idiots, or the strange young man in the trench-coat. The cash in his pocket was light and sweet.

"Liars don't go nice places when they die, you know," Lucifer sighed heavily, laced with static. "In fact, they go to very bad places indeed. This is my kingdom, Crowley. You do as I say."

Crowley shifted the cell to his other hand, his stomach churning with frustration.

"Kingdom my ass," he mumbled. "Alright, fine, there were some morons hanging around here. Winchesters. Hunters. They had a...friend." He distinctly remembered the shaded looks exchanged between the green-eyed man and the blue-eyed man. A different sort of look that Crowley knew all too well. But Lucifer need not know. There it was again, that rich chasm of joy he got from screwing over the boss.

"A friend." Lucifer sounded pensive. Crowley could hear him pacing, his feet making careful noises on ancient wood. "His name was Castiel, am I right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's right. Cass, they called him." He scoffed. "Wasn't much of a conversationalist, that one. I'll tell you that, mate."

"A nickname. How...sickening."

Crowley couldn't help but agree.

"These Winchesters...why were they with him?"

"Wait a bloody minute here, Lucy, I'm not your personal mailman, here–" Crowley protested moodily, rolling his eyes as Lucifer cut him off once more.

"Castiel healed himself. Didn't he, Crowley?"

Outside, an ambulance yanked into the ER loading bay. He'd have to get back to work soon, get back to reality, or at least a dirty facade of it.

But when he tried to answer the man on the other end, he found the dial tone echoing quietly in his ears, all signs of the conversation bled dry, like a valley of dirt.

Crowley, hungry for his crown, returned to his work.

...

In Anytown, USA, the Winchesters could sniff out a good greasy diner better than police dogs on the trail of a kingpin. Currently, Dean Winchester was face down in an apple pie, Castiel watching him with mixture of fascination and horror.

"I don't understand. Why are you groaning, Dean?" He sat rigidly in the booth, his trench-coat collar turned awkwardly up against his cheek.

"Because it's fucking _pie_, Cass," came the muffled reply. Cinnamon spat across the table as Dean gestured at Cass' attire. "Dude, you totally look like that detective from _Sherlock_."

"You mean Sherlock?" Sam called from the counter, where he was paying.

It was two minutes flat before Dean finished his pie.

After dinner, Dean found Castiel leaning against the side of the Impala, hands pressed deep into his pockets. His face was turned upwards, towards the sky, and Dean could have sworn there was a smile on his lips, a certain satisfaction in his eyes. But it could have been the light, it could have been the angle of the street lamps lining the parking lot.

He joined him there, saying nothing about the sudden proximity of them, hoping Cass isn't as oblivious as he seems.

"Hey," he started nervously. "You okay, man?"

Cass didn't do anything. He was inhumanly still, and the black of his hair against the pale of his skin in the seedy light made him seem almost statue-like, almost inanimate.

"I do not know, Dean."

Dean bumped his shoulder against Castiel's, smirking. He wanted desperately to pull him into another hug (a thought that simultaneously disgusted and shocked him) but instead he gave a short laugh.

"You wanna try to figure it out then?"

Cass squirmed, mumbling something under his breath. It sounded like the same odd language that he had used the first night they'd met. Dean didn't know he was bilingual.

"What language is that, Cass?" Dean asked, not unkindly.

"It's...Enochian." Castiel replied after a moment's hesitation. His serious eyes were focused on Dean now. "My brother taught me. He liked it."

"Well I have no idea what Enochian is, but it sounds nice. Your brother–"

"Do you really love me, Dean?" Cass interrupted him suddenly, in an uncharacteristically worried voice.

The Impala shook slightly as Dean shifted to stare at Castiel. He felt his heat speed, then slow, then finally kick up again in a nervous flutter. Why was his face so hot?

"Uh," he said, ever eloquent.

"It's alright. It must be kind of hard," Castiel stared at the ground, where his nice shoes where, scratched and stained. "I mean, you met me three weeks ago and all I've done is get you into trouble and make you fix my irrelevant problems and–"

"Cass," Dean said. "Shut up."

And he did.

"Look, you aren't really my type," he started, scratching the back of his head anxiously, "but honestly, dude? You're kind of badass."

For the first time in days, Castiel let out a tiny laugh. It sounded raw and nervous, like is hadn't been used in years, but Dean decided he rather liked that laugh. He dove on.

"And I've never really had much of 'love' and shit, besides Sammy and my Mom, but you? You're different. You're my best friend, Cass. Don't forget that, okay?"

But he didn't feel like a friend. Dean shifted uncomfortably as those blue eyes looked sideways and slightly up at him again.

"And, uh...we're gonna find your boyfriend, okay? Balthazar. We're gonna find him. Everything's gonna be okay."

Castiel took a deep breath, and if Dean hadn't known better, he would have claimed he saw a flicker of sadness, a flicker of vulnerability in his straight face.

"Okay. I trust you."

The street lamps really were terrible. The last one flickered, then sparked out, leaving the two in near-complete darkness. Dean felt Cass' hand slip almost undetectably into his, cold fingers winding around his calloused ones.

Dean laughed.

"Jesus, I never tagged you as a scaredy-cat, Cass," he giggled. Nontheless, he squeezed the hand back. "Now no more chick-flick moments. Sam's probably getting bored in there. We've gotta hit the hay."

That was when Castiel kissed him. It was barely noticeable, just the nervous scrap of his lips against Dean, and he pulled away jerkily immediately afterwards, but it sent a violent shock of electricity through Dean.

Even after Cass opened the Impala's backseat door, and climbed in rather stiffly, he stood outside, mouth slightly ajar.

In the half-darkness of the diner parking lot, Dean Winchester, hunter-extraordinaire, was completely and utterly awe-struck.

...


	15. Chapter 15

_ I told myself I'm tired of holding up your backup plans._  
_ Go down your list and be satisfied, it's all you have._  
_ And until that day,_  
_ I'll steal you flowers from the cemetery, red roses._  
_ Red rose of the dead._

"Besitos" by Pierce the Veil

* * *

_One Year Previously..._

Castiel didn't like their home. Balthazar said it was perfect, it was theirs, it was everything they could have asked for. But all it was to Castiel was an empty house filled with empty things.

He loved Balthazar–or at the very least, he _had _loved him, for some undetermined span of time–and he tried very hard to love his life with Balthazar. But it was getting harder every day.

"Goddammit, Cassie!" Balthazar grumbled, rubbing a hand through his short blond hair. "It's not my fault. This isn't my bloody fault!"

Castiel sat across from him at the shiny, barely used dining table in the shiny, barely used kitchen. In his hands he held a coffee cup, but he couldn't bring himself to sip the contents. The sugar was too sweet, the grinds too bitter. A melancholy taste of his own miserable state.

"I never said it was," he snarled back. "I just said it was a pointlessly redundant expenditure."

"It's a _business trip_! It's _supposed _to be a fucking waste of time!" Balthazar looked almost shocked at himself for the outburst, but he screwed his features into a frown. "And what, now you're all anti-Heaven? Do I have to remind you that your own brother joined government? And your father, too? You should be freaking _proud _of me, Cassie!"

Castiel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He stared down at his reflection in the shine of the table, fingering aimlessly with an expensive place mat. The threads unraveled crookedly under his pale fingers.

"Don't talk about Gabriel," he said darkly, deeply. "And don't you _ever _mention Father again,"

He took a deep breath, and turned to face Balthazar. His boyfriend was fuming, pacing, shaking his wrists and grinding his teeth.

"Gabriel's probably _dead_ because of your daddy issues," Balthazar snapped back, suddenly loud. The sound slammed violently into the bare cream of the walls, and bounced back at Castiel in a shock-wave of echoes.

It was too much. He stood abruptly, scraping his chair back across the tile he'd paid a foreign cleaner two-hundred dollars to scrub free of nothing. The coffee cup wobbled dangerously on the edge of the table, then fell to the ground with a delicately angry CRASH of shards.

But Castiel didn't care. He turned on his heel, and stalked away. Out the door and onto the porch of a house he hated more every second. Into the car that was just another pointless, materialistic jab at perfection.

The last thing he heard before he drove away was the sound of Balthazar apologizing, quietly, on the polished green of their front lawn.

...

_Present Day..._

Sam saw her everywhere. He saw her in the sludgy water that ran like mud from the faucets of motel sinks. Saw her face in the reflection of the Impala, the crowded oblivion of the forests they passed on the road, the dirty pools of oil and rainwater.

He saw Jessica everywhere, and everywhere he saw her, he missed her more.

"Sam," Cass had asked him hesitantly once, in a diner. "What is bothering you? You look...unnerved."

Sam didn't really want to explain that his dead girlfriend was staring at him in the reflection of Cass' eyes, or that she watched him wordlessly from his coffee mug, his spoon, the napkin dispenser.

"Nothing, man," he said instead. "Just...thinking about someone."

Castiel had nodded solemnly, folding his hand underneath his cheek so he could stare across the table at Dean as he flirted with the red-head waitress.

"Me too, Sam Winchester," he sighed. "Me too."

Jessica blinked in the shade of the greasy window.

"You really like Dean, huh Cass?" Sam forced himself to pick up his fork and slide a piece of arugula down his throat. He flicked hair from his face. Normality restored (_it hurt, God did it hurt_).

Cass looked up almost guiltily, a pink color creeping up his face. It wasn't exactly a good look for him, and Sam smiled a little at the sight of it.

"Yes. Dean is..." he squinted and bit his lip, as if pondering the meaning of life, or a particularly tricky polynomial. "Amusing."

"Amusing? That's all you can come up with? Man, you're hilarious," Sam laughed, patting Cass on the back as he was shot a confused look.

Jessica had been funny, too.

But Sam didn't want to think of that.

"He likes you too, y'know," he said instead. A kind smile. A sincere nod. "And believe me, Dean's a stubborn ass sometimes. He only lets certain people in. You and me?" He motioned towards Cass with a fork (_blonde hair dead eyes_). "We're special."

Cass quirked the corners of his mouth into an almost smirk, and looked down at his own startlingly clean plate.

"Yes," he sighed, a little mournfully. "Yes Sam, we are."

And in that instant, Sam could have sworn Cass was seeing a face in his reflection, too.

...

_One Year Previously..._

Castiel got a call two days later. The motel had a pay phone up front, and the sleazy looking woman at the front desk had given him the receiver with a predatory glare.

He answered violently, with a snarl, expecting the tell-tale curl of Balthazar's accent among the static.

It wasn't Balthazar.

It was Raphael.

"Hello, Castiel Novak? This is you, is it not?"

A yes, a yes he didn't remember saying. The woman filed her nails, and the room smelled like cigarettes and vodka.

"Your...boyfriend...has been reported missing. We are going to need you to come in for questioning."

Castiel felt the hard plastic of the receiver, scuffed with age, slip from his hands. He felt the drag of sudden tears on his cheek, the filmy grit of the carpeting as he fell to the floor.

He almost screamed. Instead, he stared unseeing at the concerned face of the woman, listened without hearing to her garbled questions and "sirs" and "help yous".

Seven minutes later, Heaven had arrived in four black cars, impeccably shined. Out of the first stepped Raphael, his small eyes serious and dark. Behind him came a pale, thin woman with red hair curled up against her neck. She looked cold and uncaring, as did Raphael.

Castiel was escorted from the motel lobby without registering anything, his mind stuck in some sort of dull equilibrium. Vaguely, he remembered being told he wasn't so much of a suspect, more of an obligatory person of interest, but he could sense the threat behind Raphael's smooth voice, could feel the hard grip one of the lesser agents had on his arm. He was going to be arrested on suspicion of murder, and he hadn't even seen Balthazar in forty-eight hours.

They took him to a small, plain building on an industrial street. It was at least twenty blocks from Castiel and Balthazar's house, and he didn't recognize the pallid gray cement of the structure, the dirty sidewalk, the scrawny trees. There wasn't even a sign to claim the building as Heaven's property.

Raphael motioned for the lesser agent to lead Castiel from the car. The red-headed woman followed behind (always behind, and he really had to wonder what her purpose was).

"When did you last see Balthazar, Mr. Novak?" Raphael was leaning across the plain brown table, his eyes fixed solemnly on Castiel's. The room was small, situated at the back of the building. The air conditioning swirled around them at oddly low temperatures, the cold making Castiel wish he had a coat with him.

"Two days ago. We live together." He had to fight to keep the sudden sarcasm from his voice. What were they thinking? These lying liars. Balthazar wasn't dead. He couldn't be missing. He was probably just out drinking, losing his head over a stupid argument Castiel had started anyway.

He shifted in his chair.

"I don't like your tone, Mr. Novak," Raphael sighed, leaning in again until he was uncomfortably close. "And I think you're forgetting who you're talking to."

...

_Present Day..._

Dean watched Sam and Cass from the corner of his eye. They were talking comfortably, both taking calm sips from their drinks. Sam was waving his arms and lecturing about something, Cass nodding and adding thoughts every word or so. it was...nice. Dean found himself smiling. It had been a long time since Sam had gotten all nerded-out like he used to.

He drummed his fingers on the Formica table-top. They'd missed the case, but he'd given Bobby a call and apparently Jo had taken care of it. The old hunter had even spared a rare chuckle.

"You boys doin' alright? Feedin' yourselves good?"

"Yeah, Bobby. Yeah."

"Good. You come out and visit me, you hear? I'm workin' a salt-and-burn near the Bay."

Dean had checked his map, noting that they were nearly in California now. That made it almost five weeks since he had met Cass, three or so since Jess...

They were coping. The Winchester's always coped.

"Right. We'll be there. Any leads on...y'know..."

A sigh.

"No, boy. I keep tellin' you, let it go. You ain't ever gonna catch the sonuvabitch that set those fires."

"See you later, Bobby."

Dean continued to watch his brother and his friend. Was that even really what Cass was? Dean bit his lip nervously. If he was attracted to Cass...it was never a good thing. _All my friends, they tend to die_. So what was the consequence of a "not-friend"? He shuddered to think.

And yet, as Cass turned and caught his eye, sending him a small smile, Dean felt his heart flit restlessly against his ribcage.

He turned away abruptly, distracted by the ringing in his ears. Shoving a bite of hamburger down his throat, he re-directed is attention out the diner window, wondering idly how far San Francisco was from here, and how good the food was there. He'd only been once on a wolf hunt with his dad, and that hadn't really been the touristy wonderland of the year.

Dean glanced at the near-empty parking lot, and nearly choked on his red meat and American cheddar.

He'd caught a glimpse of long red hair and a tailored suit.

_Anna_.

...

**A/N: Flashbacks to be continued next chapter. **


	16. Chapter 16

_Fear has filled this house before  
But it takes a little faith to make it through the storm  
And no matter what life has in store  
Just know I'm proud of you and what we're fighting for_

"However Long It Takes" by Sent by Ravens

* * *

_One Year Previously..._

Raphael bit his lip. A collection of moisture had gathered there, something like anger boiling under his calm facade.

"I am not going to repeat myself," he started with an air of forced calm.

"Neither am I," Castiel replied.

"_I am ordering you to be silent!_" Raphael finally screamed now, his fist slamming down on the table with frightening speed. Castiel couldn't help but jump in his folding chair, his mind still numb in shock.

The door to the room scraped open, and in the threshold stood the red-haired woman. She carried a clipboard, and an unamused expression.

"Raphael," she said with no expression. Castiel could see the tightening of her jaw, the muscles of her wrist contracting as she squeezed the clipboard in barely contained frustration. It was subtly terrifying look. "Please calm down. You're frightening poor Castiel."

"I'm not frightened_–_"

"I don't need to calm down_–_"

Both men, in an instant of odd synchronicity, fell silent as Anna entered the room fully. She wasn't that tall, but she seemed to tower suddenly over Castiel, her eyes focused on his.

"Anna, I am your superior, you cannot just come in and..._mingle_," Raphael was growling, straightening up and brushing unseen dirt from his suit. "This is my case, my rules."

"Oh, no, I'm afraid this is above you," Anna smirked. "You see, I've been promoted. To Archangel position." She produced a pair of Manila folders. Castiel noticed the near-insane meticulous neatness of her nails, her hands, her tiny golden wedding ring. "And as of now, Angel Blue is my priority."

_Angel Blue?_ Castiel had had enough. His boyfriend was missing. He'd been arrested. He didn't even know where the hell he was right now.

...

_Present Day..._

Dean watched Anna pace the parking lot. She moved in a sort of ethereal beauty, a cold expression on her fine features. He wondered, then, if he would have been attracted to her had she not been with Heaven.

Sam looked puzzled. Dean hadn't exactly told him the whole truth involving Cass, and things could definitely get sticky if his younger brother got a hold on that vital information.

Cass looked equal parts horrified and angry. His eyes were narrowed, his fingers clenched tightly around the chipped ceramic of his coffee mug. Dean had nearly forgotten the fact that he'd been working for Anna until that fatal night. He tried to imagine the two as friends, but for some reason the image was of an entirely different nature.

After all, she had forced him into being a hit man based on fuzzy guesses where Balthazar was (if he was anywhere at all).

Dean cleared his throat.

"Um, guys, I don't mean to be a hard-ass here, but we've really got to kick it or we're dead meat," he hissed. "Pippi Bitchstockings is gonna skin us."

Cass shook his head at that.

"No, I do not think she'd kill me," he said, almost calmly. "Though she probably would eliminate you, yes. Most likely in a violent manner, perhaps decapita–"

"Alright, alright, Sunshine. Shut your trap and let me think," Dean snapped. Sam still looked vaguely perplexed, but he was smart enough to grasp the idea that Anna meant bad business to his brother and Cass.

"Look," he started. "I can distract her, or something. I mean, she doesn't exactly know my face. But that means you've got some explaining to do later, Cass," Sam looked pointedly at him. But Cass still looked apprehensive.

"No, Sam, I am pretty sure she knows your face," he said quietly, almost too quietly for them to hear. Sam paused at this, but Dean cut in before he could question further.

"Maybe if I go? Start shootin' up? She'd have to stop, drop, and roll her ass to save herself."

"No way, Dean. Not again."

"Oh, c'mon, Sammy! You don't think I'm able?"

"No. Not at all. In fact, I think you're an idiot."

Cass sighed loudly. Dean swiveled his head to glare at him.

"She'll only talk to me," Cass said, matter-of-fact. "She'll only be distracted by me. I am who she came for, I am who she'll leave for."

The table was quiet. Outside, Anna looked frustrated. There was no more time to argue.

"I don't like this," Sam sighed. "Cass, how d'you know she'd not coming to kill you?"

He was met with a solemn blue-eyed stare. There was the shadow again, the thoughts of another that Sam had grown so used to having himself.

He suddenly knew why Cass was so afraid of Anna, of Heaven.

Cass was just like him.

"Okay. I agree with Cass, then. He'll go out and distract her." He turned to face the incredulous Dean. "I trust him."

_So do I,_ Dean thought bitterly. _And that's why this plan sucks._

...

_One Year Previously..._

"Someone tell me what the HELL is going on," Castiel shouted, standing up from his chair. His mind was buzzing, his vision tunneling so that all he saw was his own warped reflection in the metal of the table. Dark hair. Pale face. He looked awful.

Raphael looked at him with an expression that reminded Castiel of a spider contemplating which way to best poison and devour a fly. Anna, however, carved a dry smile into her lips.

"Of course, Mr. Novak. I was just telling my _subordinate _here to vacate, then I shall explain everything. From the beginning."

Raphael spluttered out a protest, but whatever Anna had said before seemed to scare him into reluctant submission. He took a slow step back, hand wrapped around the stark clean of the doorknob–as he left, he turned to face Castiel one last time.

"You have no idea how much it hurts to fall, _Cassie_," He snarled. "But you will."

The door closed.

All was silent.

Anna turned once more to face him, and he found himself wishing then that she were as blatantly evil, as clearly shadowed as Raphael. She looked too sympathetic standing there, her head tipped lightly and her hand outstretched to rest on his shoulder.

She came closer, and Castiel smelled vanilla perfume, bullet casings, new plastic.

"I'm sorry, Castiel," she said, shaking her head. A strand of scarlet hair blew into her face, and she ignored it calmly. "But this isn't going to be easy."

He back away, shoving her hand from his shoulder.

"Just give him back," he whispered, hating how quiet he sounded. How low. "Just give him back. Please."

Anna sighed, folding her hands behind her back and rocking on her heels. She looked off-put by the room they were in, and her eyes kept flicking to the stains on the floor, the cracks in the ceiling.

"Oh, honey," she said softly. "It won't be that easy."

Castiel bit his tongue, shaking his head. It had to be. It _had _ to be.

"I'll pay you. I'll give you anything. Just give him back! _Please!_"

He was screaming now, trying to rip that calm, condescending face from Anna's neck. She didn't look phased by it, however, or frightened. She only smiled sweetly (white teeth, red lips) and took a step closer. She took Castiel's hand in her own, and her fingers were warm and sharp.

"Anything, Castiel?" she asked.

...

_Present Day...__  
_

Anna knew they were inside. Castiel Novak and his new best friends. She nearly gagged at the thought of it. He was probably already under the famed charm of Dean Winchester, already totally and completely in love with the disgusting, crude man. What a revolting practice, love. She chewed her nail bitterly. It turned everyone into a mindless whore.

The diner door swung open, and Anna let her hand fall to her side. She forced a grin. This was her moment, she could not screw it up. Everything depended on it.

Everything.

Castiel Novak crossed the lot infuriatingly slowly, wary distrust written all over his features. Anna could practically _smell _the Winchester on him, smell the hunter filth. They were wasting their time with the surreal. Reality was much more terrifying.

"Anna," he said, once he reached her. The slow wind shook his trench-coat, rustled his hair. Anna tucked her own locks behind an ear, and smiled again.

"Castiel! Have you done your part? We had a deal, you know,"

She knew the answer. She was practically breathing in the anxiety, and it was sweet and sticky in her throat. Ambrosia to her heart.

"The deal is off," he replied, predictably. He was so _boring_, Anna decided. So flawed.

"Well then, Castiel," Anna tapped a finger against the bridge of her nose. "I guess I'll have to tell you. We found your boyfriend."

His eyes widened, and Anna decided she hated their color. It was almost imperceptible, his shock. She found herself envying the forced calm, the careful tamping of emotions.

"Where? Is he alright? Is Balthazar–is he alive?"

She smiled again.

_So simple, this manipulation of the innocent._

"Oh no, Castiel, we don't just give away gifts. We expect one in return, don't we?"

Castiel gritted his teeth, visibly shifting. But he gave a silent nod.

"Where are the Winchesters?"

The ever-so-slight panic.

"No. Not them. I won't give them up."

"Then Balthazar remains missing."

You can't do this–" Castiel started, the wind whipping his voice away and into the dull gray of the highways.

"You don't make the rules," Anna snapped back. She was losing patience, losing ground.

He looked away, and she could see the shame, the apology welling under his skin. He clenched his fists, closed his eyes.

"Kitchen," he whispered. "They're in the kitchen."

Anna reached out and took his hand, a crude imitation of when they first met.

"Good job. You will be rewarded. You have done Heaven a great favor, Mr. Novak."

He didn't look up, anger lacing his voice.

"Just tell me where he is."

The moment she'd waited for.

It was all to brilliant, all too perfect for her to comprehend.

"He's coming, Castiel. He's your replacement. He's coming to kill the Winchesters."

...

**A/N: Okay, so sorry for the weird-ass Domestic!Cass/Balthazar stuff. Yeah...heheh...I kinda hopped onto the angst bandwagon, there. I blame Kripke. **

**So anyway, Lucifer and Meg will return! There's two major plotlines here, and both connect back to Castiel and his brothers, and why the Winchesters are wanted by both. Also: anyone else feelin' the Naomi in Anna? Totally unintentional. I swear :D  
**

**Adding Bobby, Ellen, and Jo soon as cameos. Any requests for other appearances, please PM or review.  
**

**Cheers, folks. Thanks for the lovely support.  
**

**-chaoswalking.  
**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: So I received some requests for cameos! Gabriel and Ash. Hmm...I do believe some comedic relief is in order, and I do, in fact, miss my Trickster and Dr. Badass. :D**

**Thanks, fair readers, for the reviews!  
**

***bows*  
**

* * *

_Take out the stories  
They've put into your mind  
And brace for the glory  
As you stare into the sky, the sky__  
_

"Tempest" by Deftones

* * *

Dean shifted his cover behind the trash can, his favorite .22 cool and heavy in his hands. The gun had been his father's, mostly used for silver bullets and rock salt, and as he squinted down the barrel at Anna's scarlet head and he nearly pulled the trigger our of habit.

"Shoot first," John Winchester had always said. "Ask questions later."

Sam held his own Glock with similar precision. It had been years (and he was a little soft around the heart) but he was a Winchester, and Winchesters shot things that hurt other things.

They'd originally crawled into the kitchen, Sam automatically reaching for the salt. He'd imagined that Castiel was some sort of ex-hunter, pre-hunter, hunt victim or whatever, and in his well-meaning panic he'd cast Anna as a vengeful ghost. She was certainly pale enough, and the jabbering about "she only knows me" and Dean's rare-and-awkward sympathetic eyes had set his radar on full power.

Dean had told him not to go in there. That was where Anna wanted them to to go, where Castiel thought they were. Sam had frowned and smirked, and punched his older brother's shoulder with a look of _who's the love-sick one now_? He'd asked, somewhat jokingly, if Dean trusted Castiel as much as he trusted Sam. Dean went the color of a vampire's midnight snack, muttering something about basic survival techniques, and liking girls, and "sonuvabitch, Sammy."

But in truth, he really wanted to trust Cass. He just didn't. Love did funny things, and Holy friggin' Metallica did Cass love Balthazar. It sent a funny tremor through Dean's spine, that fact, and confused him to the bone. It didn't quite match with the man's recent behavior. Maybe Cass just liked kissing his friends (he was kind of a scatterbrain, a social pariah).

But he was a Winchester, so he loaded his gun, grabbed his brother, and prepared for war. He was a Winchester, and Winchesters didn't trust anyone except family.

"Family doesn't end in blood," Sam hissed from his position. He had curled his tall frame behind the trash cans, and his hazel eyes flashed over his shoulder every now and then. "We should trust Castiel. He won't sell us out, right?"

Sam trusted his brother's friend because Sam was a Winchester too, and he loved his brother like a father he never really had. But as he watched the panic and guilt play out a dangerous scene on Dean's face, he tried to put together the pieces of their puzzle of a relationship.

Dean was straight.

Castiel was a stranger.

Sam, like always, was caught in the middle of a lover's quarrel that hadn't even begun. He held his gun in his hand and thought of his own lover–six feet under and burnt to a crisp–and he found himself understanding Dean.

For three years after Sam left, Dean was all alone with things that go bump in the night. He had whiskey, one-night stands, a car that never stopped, and a radio that always played.

But he never had a friend. He never loved. That is, until he apparently met an unassuming guy in a trench-coat with blue eyes and dark hair. Until Sam lost Jess and with it his world, and came back with a vengeance.

Dean didn't want to lose everything again. He didn't want to live alone out of motel rooms and diners, and he sure as Hell didn't want Sam doing the same, Sam knew that. No, he must see something in Castiel. Maybe it was a white picket fence and someone to kiss goodbye in the morning, and goodnight in the evening. Or maybe it was a change, a rebellious "fuck you" to Heaven and Dad and the Winchester curse.

Whatever it was, Sam forgave him for lying to him about Castiel. Because that was what Sam did. He forgave.

"We trust Castiel, Dean. You trust him," He repeated, watching his older brother's face knit in concentration. "Let him handle this, man, it's his life. Whatever that means,"

"Dammit, Sammy! I'm not letting that friggin' bitch take anything else from him. She's ruined everything."

Sam frowned. The rocks of the parking lot dug into his knee, and he watched the red-haired woman try to reach out towards Castiel. He crossed his arms instead, and fixed her with a dark glare. It made Sam smirk. Dude could intimidate.

"What'd she take, Dean? You still haven't even explained Castiel to me yet," he hissed. The wind had picked up, and Sam grew nervous. What if the trashcans blew over? What if their voices carried?

"His...she took his..." Dean dragged a hand over his face, raking in a deep breath as he balanced his gun on his knee for a moment. He turned to face Sam, green eyes dark with an unreadable emotion. "She took his Jess, okay?"

(Sam's heart pitched at her name, and her face gleamed in the metal of the shotgun.)

"Oh," said Sam.

"Yeah," said Dean.

They waited.

...

Dean fidgeted. He wanted desperately to tell his brother everything, from the first night he met Cass, to the incident at the warehouse and Lucifer. But he knew that would only distract him further, and right now, they needed to be sharp like vampire teeth (excusing his cliché).

Anna was holding Cass' hand–for some reason that sent a shock of red across Dean's vision, his finger inching unconsciously close to the trigger of his gun. But he calmed himself quickly, as Cass angled away from the agent. It was too far to see their faces. Too far to make out words, but Dean could pick up the body language.

Anna was talking. Her shoulders were raised, tensed in anticipation.

Cass replied. His whole body was clenched, arms stiff at his side.

Anna answered. She relaxed, arms strewn across her chest in sudden satisfaction as she rocked back on her heels.

Cass did not say anything. He just pressed a hand to his mouth, taking a step back. Dean immediately froze, his veins going cold. Beside him Sam was still as well, obviously sensing the danger.

"What's going on–"

Dean shushed him.

"Jesus, Dean, we gotta go! She's gonna find us any second!" Sam grabbed his shoulder, shook him slightly. His eyes were widened in concern, near comical. "Whatever it is, Castiel can handle it,"

"I'm not leaving him!" Dean snapped suddenly, twisting to stare at Sam. "I'm not gonna leave him like I left Mom or Dad or you, okay?" He turned his head back towards the scene in the parking lot, trying desperately to hide the sting of tears in his eyes. He was Dean friggin' Winchester, goddammit. He killed ghosts. He wasn't going to cry.

Cass was standing all too still, his hand still covering his face. Whatever Anna had said it must have hurt. _Balthazar_, Dean thought instantly. _It must have been about Balthazar. Maybe he's dead. _Dean didn't really know why he wished it was that option, that path. Instead, he focused the scope on Anna's pale face, curled in a smile. She flicked her eyes towards the diner's back door–the door they'd only just escaped through.

"Damn," he hissed. Cass had told her. _Definitely Balthazar, then_. The only problem was, when Anna discovered no Winchesters in the abandoned kitchen (they'd scared off the patrons and employees), she was bound to head for the source–and that was Castiel.

Dean cocked his gun.

"Sammy," he said. "It's go time."

...

Anna opened the door cautiously. It wasn't that she wasn't prepared, because she was. It was that forty-two states listed John and Dean Winchester as wanted criminals, and Sam really couldn't have fallen far from the metaphorical hunter tree.

"I know you're in here, boys," she called, slowly stepping over discarded containers, an overturned vat of french-fry grease. The diner cooks had left in a hurry. "Come on out. Promise not to shoot." She nearly stepped into an over-ripe banana, her heel lodging into the peel before she yanked it out hurriedly. This place was filthy.

She leaned forward, checking under the two thin metal table. A few unopened crates. The freezer. Her Heaven-issued gun poised in front of her. It was completely silver, a special-edition containing bullets with chemicals inside instead of typical ammo. It could, quite literally, kill anything. Somewhat jokingly, Uriel had dubbed it an "Angel's Sword". Anna loved hers.

But right now, there was nothing to shoot with it. The kitchen was dark, completely empty. She growled out a single swear, turning as fast as her heels would let her, and slammed out the door again.

"_Castiel, you lied to me_!" she screamed, anger roaring red in her veins. Her hands shook as she shoved the Angel's Sword in front of her again, this time pointed directly at Castiel's face. "_You fucking lied to me!_"

He didn't move, didn't run didn't beg for mercy like Anna had always expected.

He just stared at her.

She reached for the trigger, her head pounding. Flicking hair from her face, she forced her teeth into another predatory grin.

"Heaven no longer requires your assistance, Mr. Novak," she called to him. "I'm _so_ sorry."

Anna's finger twitched. Before she could pull the trigger, however, she felt something cold and heavy smack into her forehead, pain blossoming outwards in a sudden, electric spark.

And then there was nothing.

...

Castiel jerked back as Anna's body suddenly snapped forward, her eyes comically wide and her mouth hanging open. She slammed into the ground, blood pooling on the dirty cement.

"Oh–" Castiel started, before he heard Dean's loud voice from across the lot. He tried to turn and look, but something kept him rooted to the spot, staring blankly at the still form in front of him.

A moment ago, she'd been breathing, smiling, telling him stories about how Balthazar was going to kill Sam and Dean. He felt sick, his stomach roiling, his breath quickened. He could smell metallic blood on his own clothing, and if he looked down he was sure he'd find Anna's life substance scattered across his trench-coat like confetti.

"Oh God," he whispered.

Dean was next to him, wrapping his arms around him, pulling him into a forceful hug. Castiel couldn't see Anna anymore but he could smell her, the vanilla perfume overwhelmed by the sudden scent of death. He wanted out, wanted to get away.

But instead, he leaned into Dean Winchester's embrace, and finally let himself cry.

...


	18. Chapter 18

_Say goodbye, as we dance with the devil tonight._

_Don't you dare look at him in the eye, as we dance with the devil tonight._

_Trembling, crawling across my skin._

_Feeling your cold dead eyes, stealing the life of mine._

_I believe in you, I can show you that I can see right through all your empty lies._

_I won't last long, in this world so wrong._

"Dance With The Devil" by Breaking Benjamin

* * *

They arrived at the Roadhouse in a cloud of dust and silence. Dean cut the engine. Sam peered out the window at the familiar building. Castiel stared impassively at the back of their seats.

"Well, Ellen better have some of the good stuff saved or I'm gonna shoot something," Dean grumbled, sparing a glance at his companions. He'd reverted back to his old prickly self, something that probably should have relieved Sam, but didn't.

They followed him to the door. Someone had left a cracked opened Jack Daniels leaning there, and a hastily scrawled violent message was carved into the dirt. Castiel stopped his blank staring a moment to sniff disgustedly, his nose wrinkling in distaste. It almost made Sam smile. Almost.

Dean threw open the door and entered the poorly lit room with all the bravado of knight back from slaying the dragon. He winked at a nearby hunter (the only other customer) and headed straight for the well-stocked bar.

A blonde woman wearing a smirk and leather jacket met him there, leaning across the wooden counter with a motherly raised eyebrow.

"Dean Winchester! Never thought you'd get your lazy ass up here to see us," Ellen Harvelle reached over to yank Dean forward by the collar, wrapping him in a forceful hug. "You're looking more an' more like your father every day."

(If there was any animosity harbored when John Winchester was mentioned, she did not show it.)

"Sorry, Ellen, we were kind of caught up in some, ah, trouble," Dean apologized gruffly into her shoulder, trying to hold back a smile.

"Oh, cry me a river, boy. You're still a punk in my book." But she was laughing. Releasing Dean, she leaned back to take in Sam. "And Lord Almighty did you get tall, Sam! Last I saw of you, you were barely past Dean here!" She jerked a thumb at a disgruntled Dean. "Not that that's any feat, but–"

"Hey! I'm not short!" Dean shouted, flustered. Ellen wasn't listening. Instead, she was wrapping Sam in the same violent hug Dean had received minutes earlier. When she was finished, she peered around his arm, frowning at Castiel. He was hovering by the door, staring darkly at something in the farthest corner.

"Hey, boys?" she cleared her throat meaningfully. "Wanna tell me what's up with him?"

Dean scratched the back of his neck nervously. He glanced sidelong at the near-empty bar. A man with a hat tucked low over his eyes sat in the corner, and for some reason, it made Dean anxious.

"A friend," he mumbled. "Look, Ellen, I'll tell you when this place closes up. The walls have ears, if you follow me."

She raised an eyebrow, pressing a cool beer into his hand. Yet she remained silent, leaving Dean to his worries.

They chose a small, crooked table by the jukebox. A Tom Petty song wailed from the crumbling speakers, and a plate of slightly stale cookies was passed around.

"You make these, Ellen?"

"Hell no. That was Jo."

"Jo? Where is she?" Sam immediately perked up. They'd always been friends, he and Jo, bonding over some girly escapade or another. Dean couldn't help but smirk. His and Jo's relationship was a little...different. Or at least it had been, before they'd both decided to take a step back and find their brains again.

"In the back, tryin' to revive that lazy MIT asshat," Ellen growled, dropping herself into the seat next to Sam. She gave Castiel another suspicious look before continuing. "I swear, if I didn't need him to hack those fancy government computers, I'd just toss him to the curb."

As if waiting for the cue, the back door smacked open, and Jo's petite frame came into view. She was fully supporting a very drunken, very mullet-ed Ash. It had been years since they'd seen the guy–last time, he'd nearly slapped Bobby for messing with his homemade computer.

Jo tossed the giggling Ash onto the floor in front of the table, blew back a piece of platinum blonde hair, and placed her hands on her hips.

"Well, the party's started now," she said.

….

Ten minutes later, Ash was successfully upright. He smoothed his brown hair back, grinning wildly.

"So I said to the man, 'Man, you don't control me! I'm a badass! Certified, man. Peace out." He made a poor attempt at a peace sign. "Dean, bro. I'm telling you. You had to be there, man." He lifted his own beer to his lips.

Jo smacked the upside of his head, spraying alcohol across the gathered group.

"Dumbass," she grinned. A wink at Dean, a warm smile at Sam, and a curious glance at Cass later, and she was all caught up. "So you still hunting?"

Dean nodded.

"Haven't gotten anything in a few weeks, but yeah." He motioned at Sam. "Just glad Sammy's back in one piece, y'know?"

They'd all heard about Jess through Bobby. It was silent a moment. Tom Petty sang a song about a girl named Mary Jane.

Ellen looked over towards where Sam was talking to Cass pleasantly. They'd moved to the bar, in hopes that that would quell the odd sense of statis Castiel had been since leaving the diner. Since Anna.

"Speaking of which," Ellen said, not unkindly. "Who is that? He's kinda...peculiar, ain't he?"

"Wicked weird, bro," Ash added sagely, with a nod.

Dean fought to hide the surge of defensiveness that suddenly rushed his brain, and he felt his ears go hot from it. He need a cover story, and fast. If his friends (no, his family) found out that Cass was government, they wouldn't hesitate to shoot him at the very least. Mr. Harvelle was missing for a reason.

"That's Cass. He's uh...well..." he fumbled for the words. Jo smirked a bit, but he could see the kindness and curiosity behind her eyes. It made him uncomfortable. "A contact, sort of. Got a brother or something in Heaven. Gives us info." It wasn't quite a lie.

"He looks a bit lost doesn't he?" Ellen took a bite of a cookie, making a face as she spit it out again.

"Wonky. Yeah, he does," Ash frowned. "But hey, we all got problems. Major ones."

Dean never loved a stoner more. He wanted to hug Ash, or at least buy him a new shirt. The sleeves of his were already torn off, showing his less-than-amazing muscle tone. It wasn't pleasant.

"Yeah, well, dude's had a hard life. Just got out of a killer relationship, weird-ass family."

"Sounds like a Winchester."

"Honorary, Ellen, and you guys ain't any prettier."

They drank.

The cookies, though terrible, were eaten under the vengeful eye of Jo.

...

Sam couldn't really get anything out of Castiel. He was shut off, spaced-out, unavailable. Nobody home. So instead, he wandered aimlessly around the bar. After a few minutes, the group dispersed (off to bed, or off to drink more in Ash's case) and he was left alone in the main room with his brother and Cass once more.

Eventually, however, they left, Dean with his arm casually flung around Cass' shoulders.

"'Night Sam."

"G'night Dean."

There was silence. Sam sighed. Ellen had her back turned, washing glasses behind the counter.

She'd always have an eye out for him, he knew, but for the most part, he was alone.

"You look lost, Sammy," the voice was odd, familiar. Sam couldn't quite place it, and as he whipped around to check the speaker he felt the strangest sensation of deja vu.

The man in the corner adjusted his baseball cap, letting a bit of pale blonde hair down his forehead. He smiled, not unkindly.

"I'm...sorry?"

"Don't you remember me, buddy?" He finally tilted his head up. Pale eyes and a crooked smile crossed Sam's face. "Aw, c'mon! Stanford? We were close, Sam. Like brothers."

And then it hit him.

"Lucy?"

"Yeah. Good to see you, Sammy boy."

…

Drinks were bought. Ellen, though wary, decided to trust Sam's insistence that Lucifer was an old college friend, and left them to their seats.

"You call me, boy," she muttered in Sam's ear before she left. "You call if anything gets sticky."

He assured her he would.

Lucifer looked older. Sam could see it in the lines in his face, the sad tilt to his eyes, the softer edge to his voice. He was no longer the friendly, outgoing older student. He was no longer a mentor. He was something different now, but Sam, in his stupor of shock, could not place exactly what.

"So," he started, tenting his hands in front of him. "Law school. Stanford. You ever end up with a firm?"

Lucifer shook his head.

"Nah, I got side-tracked. Things to do. World to see." He grinned. "How 'bout you? Hot-shot lawyer now, hot wife? Maybe a white picket fence and a mini-van?"

Sam's stomach lurched, but the beer (it must have been the beer) made him feel oddly warm, his head buzzing happily.

"No. No, not yet. Maybe some day." He smiled back. "Anyway, I've got Dean and his new 'boyfriend' to keep me amused."

Lucifer's eyebrows went up devilishly, and he raised his glass to stare over the edge at Sam.

"Ah, so the famous Dean Winchester, brother extraordinaire, isn't as much of a lady killer as you originally fortold, young Padawan," he said with an amused chuckle. "The plot thickens."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, well, could've fooled me. Hell, I didn't even know til, like a week ago."

Lucifer laughed. He took another sip of beer, and Sam remembered the first time he'd gotten drunk.

_"Sammy boy, you gotta do it with class, do it with style. Ask her out on one knee. Make her a cake. Hell, throw her a goddamn parade and declare your ever-lasting love." _

"Come to think of it," Sam paused, pushing hair from his eyes (his bangs were getting longer). "His last name is Novak. Wasn't that your last name, Lucy? Something like that?"

His college mentor leaned back in his chair, arms tossed lazily around his neck and his feet propped up on the beaten wooden table.

"Yeah," he grinned. "Something like that."

...

**quickie A/N: Up next, on "Angel Blue": CONFRONTATION TIME. Sam talks life, love and death (but not the band) with the Devil. Dean realizes he has the emotional range of a teaspoon. Angst. Ash consumes much alcohol, and generally is a badass. Jo sasses her mother, her friends, and pretty much everything that moves. Castiel watches flowers. Angst. Dean comes up with cute pet names. More angst.  
**

**Tune in for the next installment!  
**

**Farewell, O denizens of the Destiel kind! I owe you my life, and probably much cookies! **

**-chaoswalking  
**

**(anybody else notice Henry Winchester from the last episode was Jack Kelso from "L.A. Noire"?)  
**


	19. Chapter 19

_We followed far, as far as this machinery takes us,  
To some imaginary place where the compass shifts  
And our lips drift to our cheeks.  
Is this the edge of the world? All I know is we can't move closer._

"Don't Look Now, I'm Being Followed. Act Normal" by Hands Like Houses

* * *

Castiel had always liked nighttime. When he was a kid, sixteen or maybe seventeen, he'd taken an elective at school in astronomy, and even now he could point out major stars, constellations, groupings of celestial objects to beautiful and far away to be sullied by the dirt of humankind. He'd always found a certain calm in them. A definite path of destiny. What he wouldn't give to know exactly where his life led! Like the stars, the planets. The sky was more solid than the ground had ever been.

"You've got your head in the clouds, kiddo," Gabriel had smirked. "Too much time on your hands. You should join government, get you on track."

He'd met Balthazar, and the sky was just a sky again, a vast expanse of nothing too broad to care about, to empty to really want to explore.

He had a path. He had a place, a destiny, a fixed place in the world, and now all that–

"Cass, man, you okay? I'm talkin' cheeseburgers, here."

Dean was talking. They were seated on the hood of the Impala, and above them bruised clouds covered what little of the stars were left to see.

In an instant, the faux calm crumbled. He sucked in a deep breath, turned to face Dean.

"What?"

A frown. Dean bit his lip, knotting his arms across his chest.

"I don't like this. You're not okay, man," he said roughly. Impatience is leaking out of his words like toxin. Castiel wonders off-handedly how long he's been spacing out, how long Dean's been talking at him. "Jesus Christ, say something."

"I am not Jesus," he offered.

Dean laughed a humorless laugh. It sounded like it hurt. But he was quiet.

Castiel imagined a hundred tiny stars filling the darkness of the sky, forming the blurry, twisting shapes of monsters with teeth and skulls and wide, gaping mouths.

In his head, they swallowed him whole.

...

Lucifer leaned forward, conspiratorial, Sam's grin egging him on.

"And then I'm all like, 'Damn, Ruby. Tell me how you _really_ feel!' And she totally flipped me off! In front of her _grandmother_."

Sam snorted into his beer.

"Oh God, do I remember Ruby. What a bitch," he chuckled. Lucifer nodded sagely, lifting his glass.

"Amen, Sammy my boy. Amen."

Lucifer found himself enjoying the night. He'd come for other reasons. He'd come for his brother, he'd come to kill the other Winchester, but now he found himself red-cheeked. It really had been years since he'd seen Sam.

Of course, he had no idea that Jess was dead. A twinge in the back of his mind. What was it? Regret? Remorse? Pity? It was foreign to Lucifer, as new as joy.

"Hey, Lucy?" Sam sounded more than a little tipsy now, his eyes half-closed and hazy.

"Yeah?"

"You ever feel like a third-wheel? Like, a really really _big _one?"

He blinked. Lucifer gave the room (empty now, the bartender woman had disappeared an hour ago with a knowing smirk) a cautious glance. Was there someone else here? Government?

"Uh, no. Not lately."

Sam looked suddenly sad. It wasn't a tearful sad. No, it was the quiet kind, hidden behind dusty brown bangs and hazel eyes. He leaned back, staring at the patched ceiling. His mouth parted slightly, and Lucifer heard him chuckle almost sarcastically.

"It's the strangest thing," Sam said. "Like you don't fit anywhere, 'cause no one understands you but they need you and hate you all the while." A sip of beer. His cheeks were starting to shade, his voice to slur. "And every single time someone gets all broken up, it's me that's gotta watch it. I gotta shut up and listen. I gotta sit back and watch because I'm a fucking _commodity_, a back-up. I'm sick, Lucy. I'm sick."

He snapped his head back down to stare at Lucifer, stare hard, his lips curled back into a snarl.

"And the worst part? He's _happy _ with it. He always says he's okay without me, but he still comes crawling back like I'm some stupid savior, or whatever. And you know what? Maybe I am. But he's got Cass now, and I had Jess, and we were happy until she died and Cass went comatose. I was happy!"

He paused to shove his bangs out of his face.

"But she keeps dying in here, man," he tapped his head. "Se's just _burning up _and I can't ever stop it."

Lucifer was silent.

The name _Cass_ kept filtering through his head, screaming at him, but all he could focus on was the look of utter devastation on Sam Winchester's face.

"Amen, Sam," he whispered, because he didn't know what else to say. "Amen."

...

Dean watched Castiel. It had started to rain, the dull water sliding in rivers down Castiel's pale face, trickling onto his white shirt. He'd forgotten his trench-coat again. He looked, to Dean, like a very wet and very confused kitten.

He was staring at the sky. Above, the clouds still broiled and stirred and the sound of distant summer thunder shook the earth. The hood of the Impala was getting slippery, and Dean was goddamn _cold_. He shivered, and glared at Castiel.

"C'mon, Kitty-Cass," he chuckled at his own joke. "We gotta go in now. It's getting unbearable."

"I like it out here."

Dean ran a frustrated hand over his face. _All I ask for is one day to get drunk, and this is what you give me?_ God had a sick sense of humor.

He slid from the hood, grabbing Castiel's sleeve as he went, trying to yank him from the Impala as well.

"Okay. Time to go. You're cranky when you're tired," he managed to pull Castiel off of the car, but he refused to move after that. In fact, he turned to give Dean a flat stare, his eyes narrowed into slits.

"Don't touch me, Dean," he hissed, jerking his arms away. Dean blinked. He hadn't expected that reaction.

Almost as quickly as he had snapped, Castiel lapsed back into the silence, rain now causing his hair to stick out even more, his tie soggy and dark. He shivered, but ignored Dean's worried questions.

Above, thunder sounded again. A flash of lightening. The trees cracked and swirled, and hail began to smack into Baby's windshield, tiny pops of sound in an otherwise frozen scene. Dean found himself thankful for the distraction–it willed his pounding head to stop whirring, stop screaming at him. This was all wrong. Castiel should be better.

"Listen, Cass–" he started, reaching out a hand. But Cass beat him there.

"It's okay, Dean," he said quietly, and Dean could have sworn he was smiling as he turned his head slowly to stare at him with blank eyes. "It's going to be okay. I'm going to fix everything."

"What the hell does that mean, Cass?" Dean yelled over the third clap of thunder. The lightening was getting closer. His jacket stuck to him with muddy rain water. "What're you talking about, man?"

"It's better this way," Castiel said again, softer. He was closer to Dean now, his head tilted slightly. The blue of his eyes was suddenly blinding, suddenly terrifying against the dark of the storm. It swarmed Dean's vision, caught his breath. "I'm going to save you."

He blinked to rid himself of it, taking a minute to knead the dirty water from his eyes, nerves suddenly alight.

"Cass, wait a minute. I don't need you to save me, man–" the unmistakable sound of an engine starting cut him off. He snapped his eyes open, heart slamming in his chest.

When he opened his eyes, the Impala was gone.

And so was Castiel.

"CASS! Oh, shit...CASS!"

On the forth sound of thunder, the lightening rent a bleeding hole in the clouds. The stars, like the rain, were gray and empty.

...

In a restaurant outside of a city, a man sat alone at a table in the corner. He smoked a cigarette, his fingers still on the slender paper. The smoke smelled of something sweet, something cold.

He ordered two sandwiches, and two beers, to go. The restaurant wasn't cheap, but it wasn't too expensive either, and the dressed-up waitress slipped him a pen-ink phone number with his plastic bag (_Thank You Come Again_). She didn't question the amount of food, or the credit card slipped cautiously across the wood of the table. The feather tattoo that crossed his arm grew taut as he handed her seven dollars, in change. She accepted the tip with a smile and moved on.

She wouldn't remember, the next day, that the man had left a picture on the table. She wouldn't remember how he smiled a bit when she handed it back to him apologetically, asking him if he left it behind, and were those his brothers, or something?.

He'd shake his head and say no with a sad smile, but she wouldn't remember that either.

She would only remember the seven dollars, his British accent, and the violent lash of rain against the roof of her car as she drove away after closing.

...

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Mana Walker. She's the Sam to my Dean. Honestly, man. She's spectac-lacular (to be said in drunk Sam voice). I don't know what I'd do without her! **

**Thanks for reading/reviewing. You are all magnificent people, and deserve a hug from Kitty-Cass.**

**Meow.**

**-chaoswalking**


	20. Chapter 20

_So many thoughts that I can't get out of my head_  
_ I try to live without you, every time I do I feel dead_  
_ I know what's best for me_  
_ But I want you instead_  
_ I'll keep on wasting all my time_

"Over and Over" by Three Days Grace

* * *

Castiel had no idea where he was going. Dean's car smelled like gun smoke and apples, and the radio wouldn't turn off, and it was far too warm in there anyway, but the rain outside lashed the windows threateningly and he had no where else to go.

It was much better that way. Castiel punched desperately at the radio knobs. Everything he touched got ruined anyway.

He was on a highway now. Where was the town on the map shoved into the glove department? Where was the motel?

Castiel sneezed. He was getting a cold from the rain he was sure, and a flash of green eyes made him shiver. Dean'd wanted to help. Make this better. Talk about cheeseburgers and Alice Cooper. Castiel squeezed his eyes shut. They hurt now, like he'd stared at the sun and burned out his irises. Bleached them.

He kept driving.

...

"Hey, buddy, you okay?" the man at the motel desk was gaunt thin and wore wire glasses that warped loosely around his knobby nose. Castiel leaned against the oatmeal-colored wall, kneading his palms into his eyes. He glanced up at the sudden sound, the Impala keys digging bloody ridges into his fist.

He didn't reply, just dragged himself up and over to the desk. The clerk scratched at a rash on his elbow.

"You wanna room, then?" He asked loudly. Castiel nodded. The clerk squinted, reaching underneath the desk to yank a yellowed plastic room card from a hook. "You sure you're good, man? You look a little...off."

"It is not of import."

Castiel found his room, still damp from the rain. He sneezed again, and his head spun a little as he flicked on the light, dropping the car keys and room card on a wobbly table.

The room was small, similar to the first one he'd ever stayed in. A crooked bed, palely dubious stains littering the off-white duvet. A brown shag carpet. The lingering smell of cigarette smoke and something sweet and something illegal. There was a painting on the wall, or a picture of a painting.

It was an angel. White wings spread widely from the back of the blonde woman dressed in a golden gown. Before her feet lay an army of men. Crude blood spilled from their wounds, and Castiel found himself staring at their lifeless, painted-on eyes in a sort of daze.

The angel stared ahead. She did not mind the dead at her feet.

Castiel turned his back and turned on the TV.

...

The man stopped outside the door, holding his umbrella above him with gloved hands. He liked the sound of rain on the fabric, the tiny _slap-slap _of water across the spine of the umbrella. It slid down the handle, slicked down onto the pavement.

He traced a finger over the room number. Behind him, a black car became like a shadow, illuminated only by a passing delivery truck's headlights. The highway was silent once more.

The man wasn't sentimental. He hated the tense silence in waiting, and he flicked away a bit of rain from his face as he reached into his pocket to retrieve the bobby pin.

All the same, he took his time as he picked the lock.

...

Castiel flicked through the channels. He'd found a sci-fi movie channel a few minutes ago, and he kept coming back to the dusty images of stars and spaceships. The hero stood triumphantly over the scene of a celebrating home planet.

He didn't like drinking, but tonight he would have appreciated the constant irritation of alcohol at the back of his throat and skull. It could distract him from images of Dean, standing alone in the rain. Anna, body crumpled and pale against the dark cement, the wind snaking her red hair into little patterns. Balthazar on the porch, his silhouette smaller and smaller as the car sped away–

"Damn it." Castiel held his head in his hands. He blinked, licked his lips. "Damn it."

The door was shaking. It must have been the wind, but Castiel's head snapped to watch it anyway, and empty, almost frightened feeling in his stomach.

After a minute, his heart was on fire, pulsing against his ribcage. There was someone at the door. He rose from the floor, his fingers momentarily entwined in the dark of the carpet.

He knew there were weapons in the back of the Impala, maybe a shotgun, or a spare knife. But, he realized in a moment of panic, he didn't bring any in with him.

He remembered, at the back of his head, a passing warning Dean had thrown at him in Lawrence.

"_If it bleeds, you can kill it. Just make sure you can make it bleed first."_

...

The man opened the door with careful nervousness. He twisted his arm, pulling off the gloves and shaking rain from his umbrella as he entered the room. Dull light flooded the dank dark of the motel, and he dropped the umbrella there on the carpet.

The only other sound was the harsh breathing of the other man in the room. He stood by the television, his tie crooked and his eyes wide and far too blue. He clenched his fists, fear and anger written in the thin line of his mouth, snapped shut.

"Balthazar," he said.

Balthazar felt strange. He wanted to twist his mouth and sneer. He wanted to laugh loudly. He wanted to shoot Castiel's eyes out.

Instead, he sighed, shrugging nonchalantly and closing the door carefully behind him. He flicked on the fluorescence of the motel light, and turned back once again to face Castiel.

"Hello, Cassie dear," he said laboriously. The cheer in his voice was practiced, vain. "Thought I'd drop in for a spot of tea." he gestured around to the near-OCD neatness of the room. "Love what you've done with the place, by the way. That table new?"

"Get the hell out of here, Balthazar," Castiel growled in return. He pointed a shaking finger at the door. "Get out before...before I make you."

"It's hard for you, isn't it? Controlling those feelings." Balthazar smiled, taking a step forward. As if connected by a string, Castiel moved back. "The shaking. Does your head hurt, too? You ever get _really _bloody angry?"

Castiel shook his head, his eyes narrowed in confusion.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. Balthazar did not answer. He only pulled up the sleeve of his coat, the thin black lines of a feather tattoo dark on his skin.

There was silence. Castiel sneezed. It would have been funny, if Balthazar couldn't feel the weight of a gun in his pocket and the itch of the tattoo on his forearm.

"It's just business, Cassie," Balthazar offered. "They offered good money for this. Made me superhuman. I'm a goddamn _super hero_ now. You, too."

"No. I am not. That's...impossible." Castiel's breath caught, and he snarled out his words. "I am nothing like you. I'm normal. You lied to me for years."

Laughter. Balthazar sighed.

"Oh, you really are hopeless. Such a good little believer, weren't you?" he pushed himself forward, into Castiel's personal space, the cruelty of his words thick and sweet on his tongue. "You thought I loved you. Well, that's a laugh on it's own, but dear _God_ you have no idea what you are."

Castiel looked up at him, anger spilling over the dazed confusion. He tilted his head.

"What–"

"You're the same as me, Cassie. Nothing can touch us! We're perfect. God's perfect creation."

He gestured towards the bawdy painting on the wall, and when Castiel turned to look, he laughed again at the disgust in his eyes.

"Like angels," he said, in Castiel's ear. "We're like angels."

...

Dean clutched the cell phone in a white-knuckled fist. Cass, being stupid, had left it there in his trench-coat and Dean had both now. He didn't know where Sammy was, but Ellen assured him he was okay. Something about him being a "funny drunk" and "poor kid needed a break".

She'd asked him what the matter was, and he'd replied with a husky "nothing", like he'd always done. In truth, he din't even know how to start to explain anything. The Impala was gone. Cass was gone. Dean only had his damp trench-coat and his defective, Heaven-issue cell.

He leaned now against the bar of the Roadhouse, letting the smell of dust and beer fill him up. He didn't like the feeling filling him up–it was unfamiliar, uncontrollable. When, in his life, had he gone so wrong? He was like a goddamned chick-flick on legs now.

He was supposed to hunting down the murdering bastard that took his mother and his sister-in-law to-be.

Instead, he was months off-track and in love with a man.

"Cass," he whispered, to himself. "I know you can't hear me. But I'm here, okay? I'm coming. Just...just stay there," he dragged a hand across his face, raked his fingers though his sticky hair. "I'm coming."

The next day when Ellen came back to open the bar again, she'd find a wad of cash labeled _For Sammy_ and a cell phone she didn't recognize.

Jo's truck would be gone, and Ash and her daughter wouldn't quite know what to feel about that, but Ellen would chuckle.

She had, after all, been in love before.

...


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Briefly: This is partly an explanation chapter. Buckle your seatbelts, ladies and gents. Also: once again I thank my dear friend Mana Walker. She helped me map out a good chunk of plotline for this little project! The next chapter especially. Therefore, I bid you adieu, and thanks for those lovely reviews and reads. :)**

**-chaoswalking**

* * *

_Under your stars tonight  
And I am so overwhelmed  
By a thousand broken wings.  
A thousand broken wings._

"Broken Wings" by Flyleaf

* * *

In a space-less, too-hot motel room, Castiel turned to stare hard into the eyes of his ex-boyfriend. They were cold as brass.

"Angels," he said, incredulously. His mind was a faulty machine–it was sending him pictures of Balthazar, images and words and long lines of dialogue, but he could not fully transmit them into belief. He was numb. Frozen. The shock would bite him suddenly as he stood there. Any minute now.

"Well, I suppose the analogy's a bit flawed," Balthazar said. He wasn't leaning away. His breath was too warm on Castiel's face. "I mean, yeah, it'd be marvelous to be all 'holier than thou', but c'mon. Don't tell me those healing powers don't feel great after a rough day."

Castiel jerked back a little.

"Healing...Balthazar what have you–"

Balthazar suddenly slammed his hand down on the wall behind them, impatience written on his face.

"Dear _God_, Cassie," he laughed. It was strained. He bit his lip. "You really are slow today."

He gazed past Castiel's head, at the (now lopsided) painting of the angel woman. Her eyes were still glazed and obedient. They shone slightly, reflection from a neon sign outside. It unnerved Castiel, but Balthazar stared at it in sudden hunger.

He paced back a little, pushing his hands deep into his blazer pockets. Always with the expensive clothes, Castiel remembered. It sent a little jab of painful memory into his numb mind. (_Malfunction detected_, it said. _Shutting down_.)

"You see, we're special," Balthazar began. Castiel was trying to sort it all out in his head. His palms were dry and cold across the texture of the wall, and suddenly he could feel every pinprick of wayward plaster into his flesh. Things were too bright. Things were too suddenly warm. He blinked once, twice. "We're the ones Heaven and their _pals _chose. Daddy's favorites, you could say." He grinned.

Balthazar sidled over to the door. It was so casual, so careful, Castiel almost didn't notice that he was blocking the knob, snapping the lock until the dull sound of cheap, flimsy metal snapping filled the hot room.

"But Daddy had a problem, see. His first prototype...well, it confused him. Didn't go as planned. A false start, sort of. What is it, that all the movie guys say?" He paused, then chuckled pleasantly. "Ah. _Jumped the shark_."

"Balthazar, I don't understand," said Castiel, and as soon as he said it his heart jumped again and all he could see was an empty porch, a shattered coffee mug. Heaven knocking on his door. "What are you _talking _about? Why are you even here? Anna said...Anna..."

Balthazar looked slightly irritated. He put his hands into his pockets again, and this time, the sharp edges of a gun strapped under his blazer was clearly visible.

"That doesn't matter, don't _bloody interrupt me_!" He sucked in a deep breath. Ground his teeth. Took a step back towards the wall, the painting, and Castiel. "Anyway, other experiments followed. Successful ones. There was Virgil, he could jump space and time, even universes if he felt like it. Gave him a pill to do that. Then there was Samandriel. Oh, he was good at disguises. Looks friendly enough, but that little bugger could _kill _at," he paused. Laughed. "Well, killing."

Balthazar was close again. Castiel was awake. His hands scrabbled to find something, anything to protect him from the silver glean of the concealed weapon.

(His ex-boyfriend looked slightly saddened.)

"Heaven made a few hundred of these prototypes. Out of humans. But the best by far, well! They saved them for last."

He motioned at the painting again, and this time when Castiel turned to look, he felt something sharp collide with his face. A knife. It made hims tumble back, slam into the wall, dizzy with the sour tang of his own blood on his tongue.

"Sorry 'bout that, sweetheart," Balthazar said. "But it'll clear up in a sec, I promise."

Sure enough, when Castiel lifted his hand from his cheek, he felt the skin shift under his palm, the atoms and molecules literally _knitting _themselves back into a recognizable shape. The pain faded. Anger, suddenly vivid, swelled in his chest.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

"What's the matter, Cassie? Winchester got your tongue?"

That was it. Castiel crashed forward, forcing his fist towards the same face he'd woken up next to for the last chunk of his life. It hit with a satisfying crunch, the bone snapping underneath his hand.

Balthazar stumbled back. Held a palm to his face. He looked vaguely annoyed.

"Ouch," he said, loudly, before straightening. His face, like Castiel's, was completely and utterly devoid of any injury.

Casually, he pulled the gun from his blazer. Casually, he aimed it as Castiel's head.

"As I was saying," he continued, looking slightly bored. "We're goddamned perfection in a monkey suit. Michael, he was the eldest. He could kill with a touch. Raphael manipulated minds, which did quite well for him in the investigating business. And I can do anything I want, 'cause baby is my power sweet!"

Castiel was fighting back the urge to do something, anything. He wanted to be vicious. He wanted to lash out and jerk Balthazar's head from his neck. He wanted to be embraced by him again, hear his voice, tangy with an accent, in his ear again.

Not this false voice. The other Balthazar. The one he left on a porch in the dead of day.

"I create things, sweetheart. I spin webs. Massive webs. I caught you in one, just like I'm going to catch the Winchesters. It's easy, really. A few lies, some manipulation."

"Stop it." Castiel forced on a stoic facade. He'd done it for years, yet it hurt to do it now. "Just tell me what they–" he paused. "What Heaven did to me."

And now Balthazar smiles.

"Not just you, my dear Castiel."

He smiled.

"Your whole family."

...

Balthazar watched as Castiel collapsed. It wasn't an obvious change–a slight widening of his eyes. A slight part in his lips. He swayed a bit, caught himself, swayed again.

It was satisfying to have cracked the unbreakable heart.

"Gabriel?" The words came out choked and low, strangled from his throat. "Gabriel what the–"

"Lucifer," Balthazar blurted out. He shook his gun, his "Angel's Blade" in excitement (and the hilariousness of the name fed him like a drug). "Lucifer too. But he kind of broken. Malfunctioned. Rebelled. And that annoying twit of a brother you call Gabriel was a failure in the end, too. But not you. You were perfect."

He laughed again, took a step forward. Like clockwork, Castiel shifted to the side, trying to keep a fair distance.

Balthazar found it amusingly pitiful.

"No. Stop saying that, Bal. This is _insane._ You...we...we _loved_ each other!"

"_You loved a lie_!" He can't help but shout it. His nerves were on fire. He wanted desperately to shoot the Blade, embed a bullet somewhere. Not Castiel. Maybe Dean Winchester, or his brother. Maybe a wall. "You were modified in a shiny little Heaven cubicle just like me, and you were my first assignment and I made you believe everything because I'm good at what I do."

A tic of frustration grew in him. He half expected Castiel to tilt his head and frown, the same way he used to when Balthazar got a question wrong while watching _Jeopardy_, or when Balthazar forgot to bring home ingredients for dinner.

He rather liked that head tilt.

He shook his head, mentally cursed himself. He was too caught up, too stuck in his role.

He did not love Castiel Novak.

He pointed his gun at Castiel Novak's (perfect) face, and smiled the same smile he'd given the day they met.

"But that's all over now. Now you're just part of my web, Cassie dear, and this time we're catching bigger flies."

Castiel's eyes darkened in a moment of realization. A flicker of panic that sent Balthazar into an odd mixture of jealousy and satisfaction.

He was going to catch the Winchesters.

...

Dean didn't stop to think until he was fifty miles out in Jo's new truck, the windows rolled up. He'd forgotten to ask Ellen where exactly Sam was, and some cold feeling about that roiled in his gut. The guy at the bar–did he have something to do with it?

However, a disappearance okay'd by Ellen was a rare thing. He swallowed his fear momentarily, and focused back on the road, his knuckles white on the wheel. He'd go get his little brother after he figured out where the hell Cass put his Baby.

Dean clenched his teeth, pushing his foot down harder on the gas pedal. He didn't know exactly where Cass had stopped (if he stopped at all) but he figured the guy hadn't gotten far. It was night. It was raining. And Cass wasn't the experienced runaway like Dean was. He had to have stopped at one of the cheap motel along the straight-as-an-arrow American highway.

Sure enough, three motels down he found Baby. Still clean, unmarked, with a light dusting of rain on her hood and trunk. Dean let out a whoosh of relieved breath, slapping the wheel in victory.

"Oh, thank God," he muttered. "Jesus, Cass. Gave me a freakin' heart attack."

He pulled into the space nearest the Impala, resisting the urge to hug the car downright. Instead, he pulled the keys from the truck's ignition, and cracked the door open. It was still raining (slightly) and he was glad he remembered to bring his leather jacket. Cass' trench-coat lay on the back seat of the truck, ready to be returned to it's rightful owner. After Dean kicked said owner's ass, of course (and maybe kissed him too).

Dean walked the short distance to the motel office. Inside, a spindly man snored at the desk. A broken air conditioning unit whirred on the sill of a filthy window, and a single fly milled aimlessly about the room.

Dean slapped a hand on the counter.

"Hey," he snapped. The man jerked awake, his glasses flying off his face. Dean cleared his throat. "Uh, hi. I'm lookin' for my friend. Checked in last night?"

The man blinked sleepily.

"What?" he mumbled, fingering his glasses.

Dean shifted impatiently. He was getting too old for this shit.

"My friend. About yea high. Dark hair?" Dean motioned with his hands.

"Oh! Oh, the funny one. He looked a bit off when I saw him, prob'ly came from the bar down the street if you ask me–"

"Yeah, great, what room's he in?" Dean cut over the man's rant. He was in a hurry. He had a brother to catch up with, and hopefully a beer with breakfast to look forward to.

"42."

"Right." Dean threw a ten on the counter. It fluttered before landing next to a wad of stiff pink gum. "Thanks."

...

There was a problem with room 42. Dean knocked on the door (maybe a bit harder than necessary).

"Hey Cass, I know you're in there. C'mon, man. It's me." He waited. Tapped his fingers against his knee anxiously, frustrated. "Dean. It's Dean, Castiel, open the damn door!"

No reply.

"Jeez...do I gotta do everything by myself?" Dean muttered as he leaned back, scraping through his pockets for a bobby pin. He was going to pick the door. Cass better be sleeping, or else he better be prepared for a good old fashioned punch in the face.

Before he got the pin in the keyhole, however, there was a noise within room 42.

A gunshot.

...


	22. Chapter 22

_I've been to the edge  
And I've thrown the bouquet  
Of flowers left over the grave  
I sat in the waiting room  
Wasting my time  
And waiting for judgement day._

"21st Century Breakdown" by Green Day

* * *

There was a war in his mind. The ground seemed to shift there, glass shards embedding somewhere on his skin and bones, cold pooling somewhere inside of him. A piece of metal lodged into his shoulder, cutting the sinews and slicing the muscles.

Castiel's mouth filled with blood. For a moment, he could not see. For a moment, he lost the war.

And then the door smashed open, Balthazar dragged the gun to face the intruder, and Dean Winchester stood with his own gun poised to shoot. His green eyes slid over the scene. When they attached themselves to Castiel, they twitched out of proportion.

"Cass!" He shouted, but Castiel could barely hear the sound. His ears were ringing. Clenching a fist over his shoulder, he could feel the warm slide of blood through his fingers, and his breath was momentarily taken away. Balthazar. Balthazar had shot him. But he was alive.

"Dean, get out of here," he coughed out, his voice rough and low. "It's a trap! _Run!_"

Balthazar swung his arm around, his face twisted in a sadistic grin, but Castiel dropped just fast enough for the punch to miss, rolling on the floor, already feeling the bullet wound knitting back together. The bullet was still in his arm, but he would have to worry about that later. He had to get Dean out of here, away from Balthazar.

With one quick motion, Castiel kicked out at Balthazar's feet from his position on the ash-coated carpet. The satisfying crunch of bone echoed into the room, and Balthazar let out a cry of pain as he, too, fell to the floor. His blond head hit the ground with a _snap_, and he lay there, unmoving.

Dean was rushing forward, the safety on his gun forgotten, his finger curling around the trigger.

"Dammit, Dean!" Castiel shouted, struggling to his feet. He dared not spare a glance at the unconscious Balthazar (_what had he done?_). "You have to leave. Now. You and Sam are in grave danger."

Dean's face went stony in an instant.

"Get out of the way, Cass. I'm gonna shoot this bastard's face off," he growled. His eyes were unfocused, steely and cold and wholly terrifying.

"No. Dean, it isn't his fault, he was–" Castiel faltered slightly. He clenched his arm again as it pricked up. He'd have to remove that bullet eventually. "He was manipulated, like me. Heaven runs biological experiments. He's part of it and," He paused to suck in a deep, anxious breath. Dean's gun still did not waver. "And so am I, Dean."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Cass?"

"The healing! Anna coming after us! It's all because of me, okay?" Castiel was getting tired of this conversation. His heart was beating rapidly, his head still spinning. His mouth still tasted vaguely of death, and it irked him. "We have to go. Now. Before Balthazar awakes."

Dean was shaking his head. He gritted his teeth, ground a palm into his eye socket. He looked, to Castiel, as if he hadn't slept in days.

"So you're an X-Man, that it? Well that's just dandy, Cass, but it doesn't have anything to do with me, so pardon me while I gank your douchebag of an ex." Dean moved to shove Castiel away, but he stood his ground, the nails of his fingers digging into his palms in frustration.

"Dean," he nearly whispered. "Please. Just go."

Green eyes met blue. The gun twitched. Slowly, reluctantly, Dean lowered it, face softening. He reached out a single hand as if to touch Castiel's cheek, but seemed to decide against it last minute. He let the hand fall to his side.

"Yeah. Okay. I trust you Cass," he grunted, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. "Just promise me you'll explain in the car, got it?"

Castiel smiled softly.

"Yes, Dean. Of course." He reached out to take Dean's hand. "Anything."

Behind him, Balthazar stirred. Dean shot a disgusted glance at the blond man on the floor, a single eyebrow raised. He run a thumb over Castiel's outstretched hand.

"Okay, let's hit the road." He turned to face the door, hiding his red-cheeked smile as he held his (boyfriend's?) hand. "I get to pick the music though."

Castiel's hand was suddenly wrenched from his.

...

"Cass? What's the matter?" Dean turned to face Cass questioningly. Maybe the other man was having second thoughts, he mused apprehensively.

But when he was fully turned around, his heart dropped with a crash into his stomach.

Balthazar had Cass by the arm. The discarded gun was pressed dangerously close to Castiel's temple, and a stream of thick, soupy blood leaked from Balthazar's own head. He wore an expression of utter hatred.

"Winchesters," he hissed, through missing teeth. "I fucking _hate_ Winchesters."

Dean reached towards his own gun with the speed of a well-trained soldier, his father's endless lessons scrolling through his head. _Be fast, be sure_. But Cass's eyes were trained on him. _Don't stop for anyone, not even me or Sammy, just shoot_.

His finger's barely brushed the grip before Balthazar snarled again.

"Don't you _dare_," he shouted. "I swear to God I will shoot Cassy's brains out."

Dean froze. He could almost hear his father telling him off. _You're a failure, Dean. You won't save anyone. You won't even save yourself._

"Dean, just shoot him! He's not going to kill me!" Cass growled. Balthazar tightened his grip on his arm, making Castiel flinch, biting his tongue.

"Shut _up_," he flicked his eyes over to Dean again. "You tell me where your brother is. Now."

Dean hesitated.

"Sam–" he breathed, confusion rushing rushing through his brain. "Why–?"

Balthazar let out a twisted, wild sound, halfway between frustration and bloodlust. He rolled his eyes.

"Bloody hell, you are an idiot," he shouted. "Because you're both dead men walking. Because your daddy made my daddy very angry. Because I _fucking told you to!_"

"No," Dean breathed. "Go to Hell."

There was a snap, and Castiel let out a gasp as Balthazar broke his arm with a single hard wrench. Dean's heart kicked up a notch, hand on his gun once more.

"I'm getting tired of this, Winchester," Balthazar moaned. "Just tell me where your bratty little brother is, and Cassy won't end up stitching together his entire body."

"Stay away from them!" Dean shouted, just as Castiel's arm crawled back into a normal position with a disgusting crunch. "You wanna kill me, then kill me, but don't you _dare_ lay a finger on Sammy, or I will destroy you!"

There was a tepid silence. Cass' eyes dug into Dean's, but he forced himself to look away.

And the Balthazar laughed. It was an amused laugh, a completely and utterly blissful one.

"Oh, this is just perfect," he giggled. "Dean's in love with a freak, and his poor little brother has to pay the consequences!" He grinned widely, an all-too perfect smile. "It's your lover or your brother, Winchester. Better choose fast!"

...

Castiel knew he had to act fast. Balthazar was holding him tightly, too tightly, and if he twisted his other arm around, he could just reach his ex-boyfriend's gun hand. He bit the inside of his cheek, praying for Dean to remain silent. _I just need one more minute. One more minute_.

He knew things Dean didn't know. He knew that John Winchester's first born son had been too old for whatever testing went on behind closed doors, but his youngest hadn't.

He knew that Sam Winchester was just like him. A failed experiment. Except that John didn't want his son to become the mindless drone Heaven wanted, so he took him and ran. Just like Castiel's brothers had done for him.

"Come on, Deanie boy," Balthazar taunted. "Is it gonna be Castiel or Sam? One or the other, and honestly, I'd prefer if you didn't kill Cassy. I'm rather _fond _of him, see."

"It's not happening, you son of a bitch," Dean snapped. "I've got four hunters behind me. They're on their way. Gonna be here in fifteen, and if you don't drop that peashooter, they're gonna blow you're skull open with something a lot bigger."

"So, you choose Cass? Shame. I guess I'll have to find little Sammy by myself."

The sound that came from Dean nearly tore Castiel's heart out. It was cold and desperate and red with fear.

"No!" he shouted. "Don't you _dare–_"

Castiel knew it was time to move.

"Dean, look away!" He shouted.

He reached his free hand up to grab Balthazar's gun, surprise rendering the blonde agent nearly frozen. Castiel easily dragged the barrel down to his own chest, pressing it into the skin there.

There was only one way out.

He wrapped his finger around Balthazar's and pulled the trigger.

...

Dean watched Cass shoot himself. He knew the bullet would go through Cass' torso, and into Balthazar's heart. He knew it was a perfect shot. Balthazar would be dead before he hit the ground.

But so would Cass, and Dean felt suddenly sick.

Without a word, he stumbled forward, feeling strangely as if he were running in molasses. His feet wouldn't go fast enough. His legs were slow and uncooperative. Before him, Cass collapsed.

A single strangled cry escaped his lips, and Dean Winchester crashed to the floor besides the two dead men, dragging Cass away from Balthazar (who's face was still frozen in shock) and into his suddenly stiff arms.

"Jesus–no! Cass! _Cass!"_

He let out a sob. Dean Winchester didn't sob. _Saving face can save your ass, boy, _John Winchester had once said, over the splayed body of a dead vampire. _Emotions hinder the hunt._

Castiel's eyes were still open, the dark blue flat and empty. Dean was drowning in them.

"You're gonna be okay, buddy, just hold on," he muttered, fiercely, as he pulled Cass further and further away from the scene. The carpet was grainy and soiled under his knees, but he didn't care. "You're fine."

Cass still didn't move.

_Never get your hopes up, Dean. The world'll just find a way to screw with them, in the end._

Dean pressed his lips into Castiel's. He kissed him, long and desperate, his breath catching irritatingly in his chest.

"Wake up wake up wake up–"

_There's no such thing as miracles. God just doesn't give a damn._

"I'm here, Cass. We gotta go. We gotta go find Sammy."

His hand curled over the tiny, leaking hole in Castiel's dress shirt, the backwards blue tie soaking through with blood.

He leaned in again, for one more desperate, fruitless kiss. His eyes were flushed with dry tears. His head was pounding.

It took him all of two seconds to realize that Castiel was suddenly kissing back.

...


	23. Chapter 23

_There's no reason to be afraid  
Cause if they black out the sun  
And your blood turns to dust  
I'll follow you into your grave_

_A menace a monster_  
_The thing that haunts your dreams_  
_A nightmare, my comfort_  
_I'll thrive on all your tears._

"Menace" by Crown the Empire

* * *

Castiel held tight to Dean's jacket. It was soft and leather, worn down by years, and his nails dug little indents into the fabric. The kiss broken, he sucked a breath of fresh air through battered lungs.

He was supposed to be dead. All signs led to a bullet crashing through his chest and slamming into his heart, but here he lay, inches from Dean's face. The blood on his back (warm and saturated through the thin fabric of his shirt) was not his.

In a moment, Castiel would stand and see the splayed body of Balthazar, eyes still open and glazed with shock, full of untimely awareness of what was and what would soon be. In a moment, Dean would take Castiel's hand in his own warm fingers, and lead him at a half-sprint to where the Impala still parked. In a moment, they'd careen from the parking lot, the door to room 42 still left slightly ajar, the TV softly playing, a framed painting fallen to the ashen floor.

But for now, Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel, fingers curling through his hair, and whispered things that Castiel could not possibly comprehend.

...

The road was silent. If the radio had not been playing (a constant of warm fuzz and cold crackles), Dean wouldn't know what to do with his ears.

Castiel wanted to sit in the back, as he always did, saying loudly that "Sam's seat should belong to Sam", but Dean would have nothing of it, and so Cass sat somewhat rigidly beside him, carefully wiping blood from his own face.

He wasn't that great with words, but Dean Winchester was a man of well-played actions. He placed his free-hand over Cass', and gave it a light squeeze.

In response, Castiel paused, and sent a small, weary smile towards Dean.

They went on like this for several miles, a faded town and a McDonald's lazily passing by the Impala's steamed windows. Squeeze. Smile. Radio. Silence.

Finally–"He wasn't always like that, you know,"

Dean frowned, swerving a bit as he turned to face Cass.

"Balthazar was a good man, once. He was nice to me."

If he wanted to say anything else, he left it unsaid. Dean felt his hand give a slight squeeze back, and he turned back to the road.

"I know, man. I know."

Smile. Radio.

"And I'll explain everything. Heaven's plans. Just...may we stop and eat here?" Cass gestured out the window towards a beaten green road sign, advertising the nearest town. "I have not eaten since..."

Silence.

"Yeah, it's cool, Cass," Dean said quickly, before the sentence could be finished (he saw, in his head, fading headlights seen through crashing rain). "Hey, you'll finally get to try a cheeseburger. They're friggin' delicious."

Smile. Radio.

"Thank you," Castiel was yawning as he said it, his hand already slipping from Dean's careful grip. He closed his eyes.

Before he fell asleep, he mumbled something so quiet Dean thought for a moment he did not hear it at all.

"Love you, Dean."

Silence.

...

The "family restaurant" wasn't so much of a restaurant, and more of a bar with a few lopsided, scrubbed tables and a stack of kid's menus by the door. The place was full, however, the late-night crew of rowdy teens, small families, and lonely drunks crowding the dusty space.

Castiel led Dean to a small booth towards the back. He still held Dean's hand, and sleep had made his hair stick up in strange places. Dean suppressed the urge to giggle.

They slid into the booth. For a moment, the intoxicating smell of food and alcohol and Castiel made Dean dizzy, and he thought maybe he would transform into a teenage girl on the spot. Reddening, he grabbed a folded menu from the rickety metal holder, and thrust it out to Cass' side of the table.

"Here," he said, a little too loudly. "You choose a drink, or something."

Castiel raised an eyebrow as he fingered through the menu.

"Dean Winchester isn't hungry?" He questioned, mock surprise evident on his face. "You don't see that every day."

Dean pouted, giving Cass' outstretched hand another squeeze.

"And look, you're finally learning humor!"

The waitress, a short, pale woman with orange hair yanked back in a ponytail, swung by their table looking beat.

"What'll it be?" She sighed, without looking at them. Her name-tag, slightly askew, read "Charlie B."

"Um..." Castiel frowned awkwardly down at his menu. "I think I'll have a lemonade." He smiled up at Dean.

"Oh, c'mon, Kitty Cass!" Dean scoffed. "Lemonade? Seriously? Don't you want something, I dunno, _stronger_?"

At this, blue eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Oh, you do not want to see me drunk."

The waitress cleared her throat. Her eyes were flicking almost imperceptibly between the two of them, her eyebrows rising so far up, Dean was sure they would soon disappear into her fiery hairline. Suddenly, she cracked a wide grin, stowing her notebook in her apron pocket.

"Well, frak me twice and call me a Cylon!" She slammed her palms on the table. "You're..." she made a gesture with her hands that involved somewhat intense interlocking. "...y'know, _together_, aren't you?"

Dean nearly choked.

"What?" He replied, dumbly. Charlie the waitress rolled her eyes, instead turning to address Cass.

"He's cute. I think you should keep him." She smiled in an almost motherly way. Reaching back into her apron pocket, she pulled a Sharpie, and reached out to scribble something on Castiel's arm. Her fingernails were painted blue. "Anyway, if you ever need someone to _talk _to, about, y'know," she gestured between them again. "Being like this, just call me or my partner." She placed the Sharpie back into her apron, raised her hand in a strange, four-fingered wave, and saluted solemly. "Peace out, bitches."

With that, she skipped off to get Cass' lemonade, giggling quietly to herself.

Dean turned to gape at Castiel.

With a sigh, he shook his head, and returned to perusing the faded menu for a decent burger.

...

The motel manager stared impassively down at the body on his floor. A fly or two flickered lazily about, and he scratched a rash growing steadily on his elbow.

The boss would not be pleased about this. Not only had Balthazar allowed Winchester to escape without telling the whereabouts of his younger brother, but he'd let his muddled _emotions_ stand in the way of finally finishing off Novak. It was the classic spy mishap: Balthazar had fallen for his target.

"Bunch of dumbasses," the manager kicked out a sneaker towards Balthazar's already clenched hand. "What a freaking mess."

He wondered idly whether the boss would kill him, or simply demote him again for this. He wasn't personally involved in the Angel Blue case, but he was somewhat implicated in the less-than-desirable outcome. With a scoff, he muttered to himself. He should have just shot Novak when he came in, and directed Balthazar to handle the Winchesters.

He managed to roll the body into the tight, cockroach-infested closet, his rash flaking slightly as he brushed up against the plaster wall. Standing with a creak of bones, he straightened the painting (without a second glance; that thing was creepy) and flicked the TV off.

He should have probably called the boss by now. John Winchester's sons were priority number one. Novak was a loose end to cut. He dug into his pocket, pulling out a cracked, ancient mobile phone. He hadn't had reason to use it in years, and as he punched the number in the skin of his dark feather tattoo stretched taut and raw.

On the second ring, there was an answer.

"Michael?" said the motel manager. "We have a situation."

...

The food came quickly, Charlie Bradbury sending them smirking winks. Castiel looked suddenly tired–as if all the events of the past night had suddenly slammed into him, punched him in the face. Dean, however, didn't want to leave without an explanation.

"Look, you have to tell me, Cass," he said, quietly. "This is my family we're talking about. Why'd they kill Mom and Jess? Why're they after Sam?"

Castiel's blue eyes were dark, vacant.

"It's John Winchester," he said. Took a sip of his lemonade, ice sliding down his fingers. "John Winchester needed money. Testing was the easiest way."

Dean set down his cheeseburger, the restaurant music loud and unappealing to his ears. In the corner, two men sat with bent heads, talking in hushed voices. Once or twice, the one in the baseball cap would glance up, sent a steely eyed look towards Castiel. It unnerved Dean.

"I don't get it. Testing? What testing?"

"Heaven wasn't always government, Dean. We had presidents, you know," Castiel replied with a dull sigh and a roll of his eyes. "Did you not pay attention at school?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm an idiot. C'mon, Cass, more important issues. About the testing." He waved his hands, frustrated. In the corner, the man in the hat flagged down Charlie for a beer. The man with his back turned (he was tall, with long-ish hair) also ordered a drink. The music scraped on. Charlie sauntered off. Castiel looked distracted, by continued.

"They were a small research facility, aimed at genetic mutations. My father was on the original board, with a man named Michael, and a man named John Winchester."

(In his head, Dean remembered his father's careful distaste of all things scientific. "Cars, hunting, family," he'd say. "I don't need anything else to deal with.")

"Your father was a flawed man. He was suspicious, and didn't want to expand research past animal testings. Eventually, he lost the trust of Michael, and his only option left was to do something drastic."

Dean's heart was a rapid machine.

"What? Was it Sam? Was it me? Did my Dad kill someone? What?"

At this, Castiel raised his eyes to stare at Dean, the same "I-can-see-through-you" stare he'd received in an elevator, months ago. In a bar, hours after that. In a warehouse, in front of a gun.

"You aren't going to like this at all, Dean," he said, sadly. His face was drawn, his fingers twiddling idly with the lemonade straw.

Dean's head was already pounding. The men in the corner drank, and talked. Charlie sang off-key to the crackly radio music, her head swaying back and forth. Castiel's straw was red-and-white striped. His eyes were blue-and-white, and in them Dean could see his own pale face.

He swallowed.

"Go ahead, Cass," he said. "Tell me."

...

_Heaven Research Corps. Twenty-two years previously..._

Azazel cast a sidelong look at Winchester. The man's face was drawn, anxious, lines of defeat like trenches in his skin.

He fumbled with his clipboard and pen. Stared at the door. Inside, the sound of a child crying over-ran the sound of the quiet machines, the disconcertingly constant hum of the medical equipment.

Azazel patted Winchester's arm, in what he hoped was a comforting manner.

"Don't you worry, Johnny," he said, with a smile. "Sammy's gonna be a-okay."

...

**A/N: OH AUGH SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE here have my soul in exchange.**

**Love you all. For everything. If anyone is confused, please note I was high off of Nutella when I wrote this. Or you could send me a PM with your questions/suggestions/complaints. **

**Quickly: I have been awarded a national writing medal! The ceremony is in New York City! *flails* Now if only I could get Misha Collins to be my "plus one"...**

**Thanks and lots of love,**

**-chaoswalking**


	24. Chapter 24

_You're a mess, tangled in your confidence._  
_ You think you're Heaven-sent._  
_ Well, you're unstoppable,_  
_ Your walls are impassible._

"Don't You Dare Forget The Sun" by Get Scared

* * *

Dean sighed through his hands.

"So, Dad put Sammy in this...drug program thingy."

"Yes, Dean."

"And now Heaven wants to kill him because he's dangerous."

It was all starting to sound like a James Bond film, the kind of movie he'd used to go out and see before Heaven took over. Sam was some sort of secret spy, Cass, his old war buddy.

"It's not that simple." Cass was still drinking his lemonade. He spun the straw between his fingers, a nervous sort of look on his face. He glanced around the restaurant. "Dean, I don't like this place anymore. Can we go?"

"Not a chance, Castiel," Dean said slowly. There was an uncomfortable anger boiling in his chest. He thought of Sam, waiting for him at the Roadhouse. How lonely he must be. "I need to know. I need to protect Sam. Why does Heaven want him?"

Cass didn't answer right away. He was staring glassily at the two men seated in the corner, mouth slightly open. The music had grown dim and crackled, and Dean heard laughter from the table there. He followed Cass' gaze nervously.

"Cass? Answer me, man," he rapped his knuckles on the worn wood of their own table, heart speeding up. When he got no reply, he stood up, slamming his fist down, a wave of frustration crashing through his veins. "_Why won't you fucking talk to me?_"

The restaurant went silent. Tom Petty still wailed on the radio, but he sounded like he was underwater, and Charlie stared open-mouthed from the kitchen doorway, a wet rag hanging from her pale fingers. In the corner, the tall man turned his face, startled.

"Dean?" asked Sam Winchester, from the corner table of the restaurant. "What are you doing here?"

...

Lucifer spun beautiful webs. Glittering tales of rebellion and redemption, revenge in it's most elegant form. The threads of glory and the threads of retribution and Sam was so twisted, so caught in that sticky fabric that he almost didn't notice the cold look in Lucifer's eyes when he entered the restaurant.

"Let's sit here," he'd said. "Away from any...distractions."

Sam, dazzled, agreed.

It had started at the Roadhouse, when he awoke with a massive hangover and the vague scent of embarrassment. Sure enough, when he bundled down the rickety stairs into the bar, he was greeted with an bitch-faced Jo and an amused looking Lucifer. Lucy from college. Lucy the roommate, the role model.

Lucy the Matchmaker.

Over a breakfast of burnt eggs (Jo wasn't exactly her mother) and lukewarm orange juice salvaged from the mini-fridge, Lucifer told Sam tales of revolution. He'd left Stanford after Sam, gone to New York for a few days. He'd wanted a job at Heaven (his brother and father had worked there), but it was only seconds after he entered the building when he noticed things were wrong.

"Bad vibes, right," Lucifer had said with a wry grin. "All sorts of bad, bad vibes."

After a little research, he did a little more digging. Found evidence of not just 'bad vibes', but really, really effing rotten vibes, with a capital 'F'. Dissolution of public education. Corruption in police forces, corruption in the courts. Bribery, unlawful imprisonment of citizens, torture even. Heaven had done it all. A man called Azazel and his partner Michael.

"Human testing," Lucifer had said. "Azazel is a bad, bad man."

Hell if Sam was to argue. He remembered waking up for nights when he was young, just because he could hear his older brother's screams for Mother through thin motel walls. He remembered the hollow-eyed looks his father used to give him as he bent, sore-backed, over a bottle of lukewarm beer after a long, long vampire hunt.

Azazel was a bad, bad man. But Lucifer knew how to stop him.

He promised to tell Sam over dinner, if only Sam was buying. With a snort and a derisive laugh, Sam agreed.

He hadn't even noticed Dean and Castiel were missing.

...

Sam looked between his brother and Castiel. They were sitting together, hands almost touching over their half-finished drinks. It was an odd scene, and watching it made Sam's head ache. He blinked, once.

"Dean? What are you doing here?"

Lucifer shoved his hat a little lower on his head, avoiding the sudden stare from Castiel. Sam couldn't fathom why, but he shook that train of thought from his mind and focused on his brother.

"Are you guys okay? Why'd you leave? Did you get a tip on Azazel from Bobby, or something?"

Dean shuffled out of the booth, scraping a hand through his short, spiked hair. Sam could have sworn he saw a slash of blood on his flannel shirt, and he took another step forward, gasping.

"Dean–you're bleeding?"

"No. No–it's not mine. I mean–" Dean growled frustrations under his breath. He paused to glance at Castiel. The other man remained seated, now focusing his unnerving stare directly at Sam. There was an odd emotion buried there, under all that blue. Sam could not quite place it. "It's complicated, Sammy. Cass had to–"

"We killed Balthazar," Castiel muttered suddenly. "It was dark and he couldn't see what was right and what was wrong. He lost faith, so we killed him." He turned away from Sam to look down at his hands. "We killed Balthazar."

There was a silence. From the kitchen, Charlie gave a squeak. Dean ignored her, instead giving Castiel a look that was a curious mixture of "I want to hug you" and "I want to slap you". Sam gawked, confusion lapping at his brain.

Then, as if the day couldn't get stranger, Lucifer finally rose from his chair. It scraped across the cheap linoleum, and he removed his hat with an elegant, cold sweep.

"I thought I told you that British bastard was bad news when you brought him home, Cassie," he said.

...

Castiel did not hate a lot of people. He felt an unusually low amount of anything, actually, his bones just tired of growing weary in the absence of friendship. Connections were always severed, his father used to say. And so love is always cut out of your heart like a gutted fish.

Although Castiel did not hate a lot of people, he did hate one in particular.

Lucifer was a bad, bad man.

"Sam, get away from him," he snarled, standing abruptly to shove the younger Winchester away with one hand. "He's dangerous. Unpredictable. He's like the–"

"The Devil, Castiel?" Lucifer laughed, and it was a tinny sound. "Oh, well that's clever. You were never one for imagination, were you, brother? Even when you were a kid, always cruelly droning on about 'God' and 'perfection'. Such an _annoying_ little angel."

"_I _was the cruel one?" Castiel was shouting now. "You left me for college and I never heard from you again until you tried to _kill me_!" He clenched his fists, taking a step forward so that the two were facing each other in the dust air, tensions taut. "I trusted you. You were going to bring Gabe back, bring Father back–"

"You really believed that Heaven crap, didn't you, Cassie?" Lucifer laughed. "All that bullshit they fed you about the family?" He lurched forward, so that he and Castiel were nearly face-to-face, some invisible fiery line stopping them from ripping each other's throats out. "They're all dead, brother. Gabriel. Father. Azazel and Michael are in power now."

For a moment, Dean was sure Castiel was going to run away, punch Lucifer. Instead, however, he stepped back, shaking his head mechanically, remorsefully.

"I've done so much wrong," he said. "All because of you."

It was then that the police came. Charlie had her cell phone out in the kitchen, and the sirens broke the fighting up with a single shiny wail. The four brothers looked at each other once.

And then they ran.

...

_Castiel Novak's residence. 2007._

Lucifer held the camera before him with a lazy grin, his blonde hair sticky with the afternoon heat. He pointed the lenses at the assembled group and gave a crooked thumbs up.

"Okay, guys. On three. One, two–hey, Cassie!" Lucifer leaned around the camera to glare at his youngest brother. "You gotta actually smile for this one. Take that stick out of your ass for once."

Castiel looked disgruntled. Besides him, Gabriel reached up to tousle his dark hair.

"Yeah kiddo," he giggled. "Lemme see those pearly whites!" He reached out to grab his brother's face, but was thwarted by Castiel's surprisingly quick reflexes. He leaped backwards into Balthazar's arms, clutching to his boyfriend's jacket in somewhat lackluster mock fear.

"Help!" he shouted, with a horrifyingly fake gasp. "I'm being harassed!"

"Alright, alright, ladies," Lucifer groaned from behind the camera again. "I ain't got all day you know."

Gabriel was too busy trying to slap Castiel to listen. Balthazar had given up getting between them. He sighed dramatically, shooting Lucifer a sympathetic look. It seemed Castiel was winning the slap-battle. Finally, Gabriel broke away, hands raised in surrender.

"Okay! Okay, you win!" he gasped out a laugh. "I guess we got rid of that stick, then."

Balthazar caught Castiel before he could slap his brother again. With a giggle, he placed him back on his side, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

Gabriel followed suit, somewhat reluctantly.

"Right! One more shot before I head back to work!" He gave Lucifer a thumbs-up. "Hit it, bitch!"

When the flash faded, Lucifer brought up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, grinning back at his family. He sauntered over, shoving the camera into Castiel's hands.

"Here," he said. "Email it to me when it downloads."

Castiel smiled.

"You're too lazy for your own good, Lucifer," he sighed, pocketing the digital camera. "But fine. I'll email it to you."

"Atta boy," Lucifer reached over to pull his brother into a tight hug, a stupid grin plastered over his face. "You know, I always liked you the best."

Ignoring Gabriel's shouts of treason, and Castiel's muffled complaints of claustrophobia, he laughed again, and hugged tighter.

...

**A/N: Because this is, like, two and a half weeks late, I will update at least once more this week, probably twice more. I've got a lot of free time on my hands now, but the last month a super busy, so I'm really sorry for that long wait! I hope this dish of family angst/totally shameless fluff can cure your ills.  
**

**It's my birthday tomorrow! Woo! My cake was supposed to look like the _Psych_ signature pineapple, but my twin is being an assbutt (love you, sis) and doesn't like frosting. Oh well. She's still a prettier, smarter, more bad-ass version of me. :D **

**Also: I am proud to announce that my good friend Mana Walker is going to be helping me on all of my _Supernatural _fics, including possiblly being my beta for this one, and the upcoming sequel. If you haven't already, check her work out. She's awesome.**

**Thanks to all who favorited, followed, reviewed, or just read.**

**You are magical.**

**Love, chaoswalking**


	25. Chapter 25

_Don't say I'm better off dead,  
'Cause heaven's full and hell won't have me.  
Won't you make some room in your bed?  
Oh, well you could lock me up in your heart,  
And throw away the key.  
Won't you take me out of my head?_

"And The Snakes Start To Sing" by Bring Me The Horizon

* * *

There was a standard bricked alley outside the restaurant, the thick door unlocked. Dean leaned his shoulder into it, momentarily forgetting there was a psycho eating dinner with his brother, and smashed it open. All four of them tumbled out into the sharp night chill, door swinging shut heavily behind them.

The sirens were getting closer. Inside the restaurant, Dean could hear Charlie swearing.

"Damn!" he growled. "Cass, why'd you have to mention that?"

Cass was too busy panicking to answer, though, hands clenching and un-clenching into fists. He was pressed against the brick wall, muttering. Sam pushed past him to jab Dean in the chest. His hair was mussed, face pressed in anger.

"You killed someone, Dean?" he was practically screaming. "What the Hell were you thinking?"

"Balthazar is hardly someone, Sammy boy," Lucifer snarled from where he stood next to Cass. His hand was gingerly touching his estranged younger brother's twitching shoulder. "Just a piece of conceited lying trash with an ego and stupid powers."

Cass made a sound of disapproval, shooting Dean a flat-eyed glare.

"Whatever!" Dean threw his arms up. Somewhere, a siren intensified, coupled with the sound of tires scraping across pavement. "_I'm _still not off the fact that you're crushing on my apparently magical brother!"

Sam turned a shade of red usually reserved for Oscar gowns and particularly gruesome crime scenes. He gritted his teeth.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Dean, but it isn't funny."

"Oh, you know damn well what I'm talking about!" Dean was shouting now. "Man, Sammy, I don't mind if you're into dudes, but can't you be into a less psychopathic one? Maybe one that didn't try to _murder me_ a few months ago?"

Cass looked like he was starting to go into shock. Sam ground his teeth together, hazel eyes rounded with frustration.

Before anything else could happen, however, Lucifer snapped his fingers angrily.

"Hello?" he snarled above the din. "Heaven agents at twelve o' clock. I'm thinking we should skedaddle before we end up being scraped off the walls."

Dean resisted the urge to punch the blonde idiot's face in. He muttered something vulgar.

"Fine," he snapped. He stalked forward to grab Castiel's arm, pulling him forward. "We're going."

He made to do the same for Sam, but his younger brother jerked away, jaw tight with disapproval.

"I'm riding with Lucy," he snarled. Lucifer looked unbearably smug.

Dean growled, clenching maybe a bit too hard on Cass's trench-coated limb, before shooting him a narrow-eyed glare.

...

As he jerked the Impala messily out of the back parking lot, Dean listened shakily to the sound of the sirens. He could see lights flashing spasmodically inside Charlie's diner, the silhouettes of familiar suit-clad agents sharp and blocky in his rear-view mirror. Heaven had clearly suspected more than a case of a simple bar brawl. They had to have know by now that he and Castiel Novak had killed an agent, stashed his body inside an unused linen closet.

They had come to cut the loose ends.

"Dean," Cass's voice was dark from the passenger seat, shaky panic slight. "Dean, they're going to find us."

Dean yanked the car onto a sidestreet, sending a painfully loud tire screech into the air. He dared a glance out the window–red and blue told him another car had picked up the chase.

"No they won't," he snapped irritably back. "I won't let those assholes touch you or Sammy."

Sammy.

_Dammit_, Dean thought. _Of all the times to go through his experimental phase..._

Of course, Dean couldn't exactly talk. _His _magical boyfriend had a shady past twice as dangerous as his not-so angelic brother, and he was supposed to be the good one.

They careened onto the highway. Behind them, it was eerily quiet, the night air rattling the Impala's windows like bones in a bucket.

"Dean!"

Dean snapped his head towards Cass. He was sitting straight up in his seat, blue eyes focused intently on the road ahead. His seatbelt was undone. A single white-knuckled hand clutched at the glove department, and his breath was loud and uneven.

"Oh, God," he said, suddenly. "Oh, God DEAN STOP THE CAR RIGHT–"

Just then, something large and dark collided with the the front of Baby.

For an instant, all Dean could see was a familiar sort of fire, dancing almost blissfully across his vision as he felt his wrists snap back, his neck snap forward, and his hands leave the steering wheel and crash forward with the force of the impact.

Then, he saw nothing at all.

...

_Two Weeks Later..._

Lights.

This place was full of lights.

Castiel counted them wearily, his eyes moving from one fluorescent bulb to the next.

_Fifteen. _His eyes were starting to burn. _Sixteen_. He dared not stop.

"Mr. Novak, I'm going to need you to answer my question."

_Seventeen_. He blinked, once. The sensation sent a shock of color onto his eyelids. _Eighteen_. He tried to focus on the faint buzz of electricity that swallowed the bulb.

"Answer my question, Mr. Novak! _Where is Sam Winchester?_."

He forced his eyes back down on the table. It was smooth, perfectly clean, made of the same stainless steel as his handcuffs. He blinked again. Studied the white reflections of the fluorescents in the reflection. _Nineteen. Twenty._

He spared a small, dry laugh.

"Bite me," he answered.

The table vibrated loudly as the agent slammed a palm into the surface. Her name was Rachel. She was blonde and she had threatened to kill Castiel forty-six times in the last two and a half hours.

"If you don't answer," Rachel snarled, lips curling back. "I'm going to call in to headquarters. Tell them there's an agent that isn't cooperating. Tell them to sign that execution order on Dean Winchester's head."

He snapped his eyes up. _Twenty_.

"Don't. You. Dare."

Rachel smiled without changing her eyes. She leaned back in her chair, the fabric of her pantsuit rustling slightly as she did. _Twenty-one_. She motioned behind her with a snap of her fingers.

"Virgil," she said. "Uriel. Escort Mr. Novak back to his room. Make sure he comes up with something in...forty-five minutes."

_Twenty-one_. Rachel stood. He could feel someone tugging on his arms, but he did not move his gaze from her face. If he concentrated hard enough, he could imagine a room full of shattering bulbs, laced with light, carving into her skin until she was nothing but a pile of screaming, dirty bones.

"If he doesn't," she said. "Tell him Dean Winchester will die alone."

...


End file.
